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ROBERT  DUNN 


UftRARY 

ONIVERSITV  Of 
CAUFORNtA 

SAN  DJEGO 


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FIVE  FRONTS 


FIVE  FRONTS 

On  the  Firing-Lines  with  English- 
French,  Austrian,  German 
and  Russian  Troops 


BY 

ROBERT  DUNN 

Author  of  "The  Youngest  World,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1915 


Copyright,  1914,  1915 
By  new  YORK  EVENING  POST  CO. 

Copyrieht,  1915 
By  DODD,  mead  and  COMPANY 


ROBERT  EMMET  MacALARNEY 


Thanks  are  due  the  New  York  Evening  Post  for 
permission  to  reprint  most  of  the  following  pages. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    WITH  THE  ENGLISH  IN  FRANCE. 

CHAPTER  .  PAGE 

I    The  Retreat  from  Mons i 

II  The  Battle  of  Le-Cateau-Cambrai 14 

III  St.  Quentin  and  the  Aftermath 26 

IV  The  Turning  Tide  —  Battle  of  the  Marne    ...     44 
V    Comedy  at  the  British  Headquarters 57 

PART  II.    WITH  THE  AUSTRIANS  IN  GALICIA. 

I  Into  the  Carpathians 69 

II    The  Cholera  Trail  to  Przemysl 82 

III  From  the  Fortress  into  Battle 94 

IV  Dead  Radymno 115 

PART  III.    IN  SERVIA. 

I    The  Retreat  from  Przemysl 129 

II    A  Glorious  Catacomb 139 

III    Prisoners  and  an  American 151 

PART  IV.    WITH  THE  GERMANS  IN  FLANDERS. 

I  Working  Royalty 163 

II  Night  in  the  Trenches 187 

III  Conquered  France 207 

IV  German  Sword  and  Gallic  Soul     .,,,,.  221 


CONTENTS 

PART  V.    WITH  THE  RUSSIANS  IN  BUKOWINA. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    A  Dead  Center  of  War .  241 

II    Running  the  Lines  from  Czernowitz     .....  257 

III  In  the   Hands  of   Cossacks 268 

IV  Holding  Up  a  "Bandit" 285 

V    Winter  Fight  and  Philosophy 293 


FOREWORD 

Hungarian  Is  an  Asiatic  language  using  Roman 
letters.  So  last  November  in  Budapest  William 
G.  Shepherd  of  the  United  Press  and  I  were  puz- 
zled by  placards  on  dead  walls  headed:  hirdet- 
meny! 

"  Sounds  like  some  kind  of  crime,"  I  said. 
"  But  what  crime?  "  (To  this  day  I  do  not  know 
what  the  word  means.) 

"  Murder,  perhaps,"  said  Shep.  "  They're 
advertising  the  finish  of  '  War  Correspondents,' 
old  style." 

Maybe  the  reporter  is  harder  to  kill.  He  is 
apt  to  care  little  for  messing  with  generals,  or  to 
pose  as  a  tactician.  He  knows  that  one  comes 
closer  to  the  realities  of  war  by  mingling  afoot 
with  peasantry  and  troopers,  than  when  convoyed 
by  staff  officers  and  allowed  to  see  only  what  they 
permit,  to  learn  what  they  want  him  to  know. 
He  smiles  at  the  pretensions  of  "  War  Corre- 
spondents," who  ape  military  dress,  soldiers'  ways 
of  conduct,  and  collect  decorations.  He  wonders 
over  the  hullabaloo  about  making  dodos  of  them, 
since  they  have  existed  chiefly  in  their  own  or 


X  FOREWORD 

their  newspapers'  imaginations.  And  I  ask,  have 
those  who  mourn  the  halcyon  days  of  Archibald 
Forbes  ever  read  him  without  thinking  of  Black- 
stone  and  the  Lucy  Books  in  one? 

In  this  inane  war  many  doors  lay  open  to  the 
various  fronts.  The  reporter  needed  only  per- 
sonal credentials,  Initiative,  candour,  and  a  sense 
of  locality.  I  found  no  military  official  who  did 
not  treat  me  civilly,  in  doing  his  duty  as  he  saw 
it;  and  this  whether  I  was  his  involuntary  guest, 
under  arrest,  or  a  mere  intruder  between  the  lines. 
If  any  of  those  doors  are  now  shut  to  me  I  har- 
bour neither  grief  nor  resentment.  Each  bellig- 
erent demands  that  you  be  partisan  In  what  you 
write  from  the  lines;  that  you  conceal  what  he 
wants  hidden,  tell  what  he  wants  told.  In  the 
febrile  political  state  of  the  capitals  of  Europe 
this  policy  of  "  He  who  Is  not  for  me  is  against 
me  "  is  only  natural.  There  you  may  be  told 
that  the  whole  truth  will  be  welcomed,  only  to 
learn  later  that  you  have  been  fooled,  and  that  a 
non-partisan  whose  job  Is  to  report  and  write 
life  as  he  sees  It  cannot  stay  persona  grata  nowa- 
days with  any  fighting  government. 

Poor  old  Mister  Truth  —  Herr,  Monsieur,  or 
Gospadeen  —  who  never  Is  belligerent  I  I  know 
that  to  prate  of  one's  honesty  opens  it  to  suspi- 
cion. I  cannot  and  I  do  not.  I  want  only  to 
plead  for  that  personal  sincerity  in  reporting  with- 


FOREWORD  xi 

out  which  recorded  history  is  worthless ;  which  de- 
mocracies hold  to  be  one  safeguard  of  civilisation. 
This  war  is  putting  it  to  the  test;  reporters,  too, 
are  "  fighting  for  life  "  now.  And  yet  the  blind- 
ness, the  official  sophistries  which  often  impeded 
me,  seem  in  retrospect  appealing,  sometimes 
pathetic,  in  their  humanity.  One  loves  far  less, 
judging  from  what  I  saw  upon  certain  fronts,  the 
authors  of  much  that  is  written  from  such  places, 
and  marvels  how  some  of  them  can  sleep  at  night. 
And  if  ever  after  this  war  I  see  a  "  correspond- 
ent "  wearing  a  military  decoration  I  .  .  . 

This  book  tries  to  be  a  detached  report  of  con- 
crete, human  scenes  in  five  zones  of  fighting.  I 
believe  that  I  saw  or  participated  in  them  in  the 
spirit  of  a  true  neutral.  But  full  detachment  is 
a  cold-blooded  virtue,  and  it  is  as  barren  to  act 
or  write  with  the  feelings  of  a  lizard  as  of  a  senti- 
mentalist. Moments  come  in  the  thick  of  things 
when  one  is  carried  off  his  feet,  in  sympathy,  in 
scorn,  in  recklessness;  which  these  pages,  as  fairly 
immediate  transcripts,  must  reflect.  Thus  I  have 
excuse  to  make  and  apology  to  offer  no  more  for 
scoring  the  Austrians  in  Servia  and  reverencing 
the  Lilleols  of  German  France,  than  for  homage 
to  the  British  at  St.  Quentin,  fellowship  with  the 
Russian  invaders  of  Bukowina,  or  for  firing  two 
aimless  shots  from  the  Bavarian  trenches.  I 
think  that  in  each  instance  I  acted  and  have  writ- 


xil  FOREWORD 

ten  naturally,  honestly,  as  a  reporter  and  a  human 
being. 

No  army  nor  foreign  office  in  this  war  recog- 
nises as  such  reporters  in  the  fullest  and  most 
serious  sense  of  their  aims.  Therefore,  since  be- 
ing free  agents  is  the  prime  condition  of  their  ex- 
istence, they  must  provide  their  own  standards 
of  right  and  wrong,  follow  them  at  their  own  risk. 
Personally  I  hold  it  dishonourable  to  transmit 
from  one  enemy  to  another  information  of  tac- 
tical value.  But  I  would  not  hesitate  to  break 
any  censorship  upon  social  and  political  facts,  or 
deeds  violating  the  decencies  of  war.  Personal 
conduct  is  to  be  governed  by  the  orders  and  per- 
missions of  the  officers  whom  you  are  with,  a 
matter  which  cares  for  itself,  because  no  real  neu- 
tral when  he  is  among  men  sacrificing  their  livps 
—  no  matter  how  mistakenly  —  can  fail  to  feel 
his  heart  leap  and  to  bow  in  admiration  for  them. 
Just  as  they  feel  no  venom  against  the  enemy  fac- 
ing them,  it  is  never  they  who  hamper  the  re- 
porter. Peace,  if  it  comes  before  all  Europe  has 
made  a  Mexico  of  herself  (as  appears  to  me  she 
very  well  may),  will  have  its  roots  in  that  sub- 
lime brotherhood  of  all  fighters  which  reigns 
along  every  front. 

For  the  rest,  reporting  is  much  a  trick  of  ob- 
serving and  interpreting;  a  problem  of  selection, 
like  any  art.     Sometimes  a  particular  scene,  or 


FOREWORD  xHi 

emotion,  or  personality,  obtrudes  as  a  keynote. 
Walker,  the  English  bicycle  scout  at  the  battle 
of  Le  Cateau,  was  one.  Such  a  being  becomes  the 
shaft  of  light  between  the  inexpressible  before 
your  eyes,  and  the  credulous  darkness  of  the  read- 
er's mind.  I  hope  that  I  have  conveyed  as  flesh 
and  blood  protagonists  equally  revealing  men  like 
the  Bavarian  Lieutenant  RIegel,  Captain  She- 
chin  the  Russian  Hussar,  Ivan  Tornich  the 
American  serb,  and  the  soldier  of  Przemysl  in 
the  death-throes  of  cholera. 

Discretion  has  place  in  reporting,  but  decep- 
tion none.  Luck  is  far  less  an  element  than  good 
after-results  may  seem  to  Imply.  In  the  flush  of 
success  one  forgets  his  planning  and  hard  think- 
ing. Seeing  clearly,  like  facing  bullets,  is  a  test 
of  temperament,  name  it  courage  or  any  other 
quality  more  or  less  resounding.  And  war,  for 
all  its  horror,  may  also  be  beautiful.  I  hold  that 
the  good  reporter,  like  the  good  soldier,  must  look 
upon  war  as  the  supreme  adventure  in  the  great 
drama  called  Life. 

Carvel  Hall,  Annapolis,  Maryland, 
April  9,  igi5. 


PART  I 
WITH  THE  BRITISH  IN  FRANCE 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS 

Paris,  August  28,  1914. —  For  two  nights  and 
most  of  three  days  the  writer  has  been  within  the 
Allies'  lines.  All  of  Wednesday  morning  —  the 
terrible  August  26th  —  I  was  directly  under  the 
German  fire.  I  can  thus  give  the  first  eye-witness 
account  of  British  operations  on  French  soil 
against  the  principal  invading  German  force. 

That,  as  the  world  now  knows,  was  the  master- 
ful retreat  of  the  Expeditionary  Force  from  the 
region  of  Mons,  in  Belgium,  to  Noyon,  some  sixty- 
five  miles  inside  the  French  border.  Foremost  in 
this  unique  experience  stands  the  glorious  cheer, 
coolness,  and  morale  of  the  English  troops,  under 
the  most  desperate  conditions  that  even  this  un- 
tried modern  warfare  can  impose:  one  to  three 
they  fought  against  Von  Kluck's  army,  inflicting 
and  receiving  tremendous  losses.  In  various 
places  of  the  world  I  have  stood  before  danger 
and  suffering,  but  never  in  the  past  have  I  been  so 
on  the  point  of  yielding  In  feeling  to  them  as  in 
these  last  seventy  hours  on  the  white  roads  and  in 
the  stacked  wheat  fields  of  the  Nord. 

Prudence  alone  for  my  own  safety  —  and  not 


2  FIVE  FRONTS 

from  the  arms  of  the  Uhlans  —  made  me  return. 
In  that  forbidden  military  region,  where  any 
foreigner  is  remarked  in  peace  times,  I  was  be- 
coming altogether  too  conspicuous.  The  peasan- 
try were  spy-mad,  and  yet  I  was  only  once  ar- 
rested as  a  spy,  and  that  by  the  civil  authorities, 
to  whom  I  proved  innocence  easily  enough.  It 
was  the  military  who  were  to  be  feared,  and, 
openly  associating  with  both  officers  and  men  along 
the  firing  line,  the  danger  of  being  caught  as  I 
was  without  permits  from  the  staff  grew  ever  more 
exciting  and  imminent.  But  it  was  rather  a 
shameful  luxury  to  have  been  for  this  time  without 
my  boots  off,  without  sleep,  and  with  little  more 
than  bread  and  cheese  to  eat,  beside  soldiers  who 
had  received  no  rations  for  three  days,  and  who  as 
they  shuffled  and  dozed  along  would  tell  you  of 
regiments  1,200  strong  that  at  roll-call  after  bat- 
tle mustered  but  two  officers  and  100  men. 

Paris  newspapers  of  August  25  declared  the 
northern  railways  open  as  far  as  the  village  of 
Aulnoye,  some  nine  miles  south  of  the  fortified 
border  city  of  Maubeuge.  In  the  same  way  the 
War  Office  announced  that  the  Allies'  lines  in  this 
region  had  fallen  back  to  the  main  position  north 
of  that  city  and  extending  beyond  the  Belgian 
frontier  near  Valenciennes.  At  the  commissariat 
of  police  in  my  Paris  arrondissement,  I  got  per- 
mission on  my  "  permis  de  sejour  "  to  leave  the 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS         3 

city,  and  a  "  sauf-conduit  "  to  and  from  Aulnoye. 
These,  my  passport,  and  the  policy  of  absolute 
frankness  to  all  questioners  saved  me.  Had  that 
commissary  known  the  location  of  Aulnoye,  I 
doubt  whether  he  would  have  issued  me  the  pa- 
pers. A  crowd  was  waiting  in  his  office,  and  I 
vaguely  assented  to  his  vaguer  question  whether 
the  village  was  not  in  the  district  of  the  North. 
But  Aulnoye  I  never  saw. 

I  caught  a  noon  train  from  the  Gare  du  Nord, 
in  khaki  trousers,  blue  serge  coat,  golf  cap,  and 
the  shirt  of  an  American  marine.  All  along  the 
line  France  wrote  the  index  of  her  life-struggle. 
Dusty  soldiers  in  their  scarlet  bags  of  trousers 
and  blue  frock-hke  coats  with  tails  buttoned  back 
crowded  the  station  platforms,  singing,  smoking, 
filling  canvas  water  buckets  for  their  horses  at  the 
platform  taps.  Boxcar  troop  trains  packed  with 
them  and  their  womenfolk  slid  along  the  adjoin- 
ing track.  Every  siding  was  jammed  by  flatcars 
loaded  with  grey  artillery  pieces,  with  ammuni- 
tion wagons;  with  black,  dome-roofed  cars  bear- 
ing the  ominous  "  40  hommes  —  8  chevaux." 
Every  station  yard  was  a-litter  from  hay  bales 
shipped  north. 

Noyon  swarmed  with  officers  in  pale  blue  coats 
and  caps,  with  silver  epaulettes,  and  a  few  cuiras- 
siers' brass  helmets,  from  which  long  hair  dangles 
behind.     The  uncut  wheat  lay  in  the  fields  flat- 


4  FIVE  FRONTS 

tened  from  rain,  the  stacked  mildewing;  once  I 
saw  four  old  women  unloading  a  rick  into  a  barn. 
All  that  luxuriant  country  in  the  rich  crisis  of  har- 
vest was  empty,  rotting.  Engines  linked  together 
by  the  half-dozen  rushed  south,  "  from  Belgium," 
as  the  stout,  bearded  man  opposite  in  the  carriage 
informed.  "  From  Belgium,"  too,  came  the  box- 
cars glutted  with  refugees;  at  the  time  he  fooled 
me  into  believing  that.  The  platform  at  St. 
Quentin  swarmed  with  the  British,  in  their  flat 
caps  and  olive  drab,  so  exactly  like  our  army  uni- 
form. 

It  was  getting  dark  and  had  been  raining. 
The  refugees  now  rode  on  open  flat-cars,  the 
distracted  mothers  in  black  holding  umbrellas 
over  the  baby  carriages.  At  Bohain  my  first- 
class  compartment,  long  empty,  filled  with  eight 
railway  guards,  who  inspected  me  in  a  suspicious 
silence,  and  then  promptly  fell  asleep.  We  were 
due  at  Aulnoye  at  eight  o'clock,  but  it  was  past 
that  now.  •  The  train  halted  at  a  town  called 
Le  Cateau,  fifteen  miles  south  of  my  destination. 
A  being  thrust  his  head  into  the  window  and 
muttered  something  rapidly,  which  woke  the 
guards  as  if  a  rifle  had  gone  off.  The  youngster 
in  the  next  seat  turned  to  me  and  said : 

"  The  Germans  are  all  about  Maubeuge.  The 
train  goes  no  further." 

I  stepped  out  into  the  darkness  of  that  strange 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS         5 

place,  Le  Cateau,  and  into  such  a  spectacle  as  no 
man  can  forget.  I  knew  that  then;  it  hardly 
would  have  heightened  the  feeling  to  know  also 
that  in  twelve  hours  I  should  see  the  town 
ablaze.  The  guards  dissolved  into  the  noisy  plat- 
form crowd,  which  carried  paste-board  bundles, 
baskets,  babies.  No  one  at  the  gate  asked  for 
my  ticket  or  my  papers.  A  half-visible  squad  of 
troops  on  the  road  passed  rapidly,  whistling  a 
queer  lively  tune  in  unison.  It  was  only  when 
they  broke  feebly  into  the  Marseillaise  that  I  was 
sure  they  were  French.  And  they  were  marching 
south. 

I  made  for  a  light,  through  an  iron  gateway 
in  a  high  brick  wall.  In  the  middle  of  the  en- 
closure a  woman  outlined  in  the  doorway  de- 
manded shrilly  who  I  was  and  what  I  wanted. 
I  asked  for  a  hotel,  and  she  directed  on  up  the 
street,  as  two  dogs  broke  forth  furiously.  Out- 
side, French  troops  were  marching  so  densely 
that  I  had  to  brace  and  wait  against  the  lightless 
brick  houses  of  the  narrow  street,  as  it  curved 
north,  down  into  the  hollow  where  the  heart  of 
Le  Cateau  lay.  Suddenly  I  caught  the  impatient 
panting  and  the  blinding  shimmer  of  blocked  au- 
tomobiles. In  them  as  they  followed  south  were 
British  uniforms,  with  the  meagre  scarlet  facings 
of  staff  officers.  Then  an  immense  clatter  of 
hoofs,  the  jolt  of  heavy  wheels  —  artillery,  sup- 


6  FIVE  FRONTS 

ply  wagons,  cavalry,  the  gleam  on  lances  from 
more  motors.  It  was  the  British  in  retreat  —  the 
British/ 

The  town  square  was  filled  with  them,  already 
spreading  their  kits  on  the  stone  paving;  with 
horses,  motor-cars.  It  was  half  an  hour  after  I 
had  inquired  at  every  lighted  house  for  lodging 
before  I  found  the  Hotel  du  Mouton  Blanc.  At 
a  long  table  in  a  windowless  room  behind  the  cafe 
I  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  dozen  British  officers, 
and  gave  those  around  me  the  two  Paris  news- 
papers printed  in  English  of  that  morning.  They 
read  them  with  an  eager  disdain,  and  their  com- 
ments first  realised  to  me  the  grim  drama  into 
which  I  had  stumbled,  and  their  wonderful  spirit 
under  reverse. 

"  The  Earl  of  Leven  wounded,  eh?  "  said  the 
young  lieutenant  of  a  Dorsetshire  regiment  on 
my  right;  "is  that  all  they  have?"  (Leven's 
was  for  days  the  only  casualty  made  public.) 
"  We're  rather  well  cut  up,  too.  Five  officers  and 
240  men  alive  out  of  a  thousand  in  that  business 
around  Vicq." 

It  was  the  first  bald  chapter  of  the  decimations 
that  for  the  next  two  days  officers  and  men  re- 
peated to  me,  and  always  thus,  as  if  they  were 
but  remembering  from  a  book  of  statistics;  with 
never  a  quiver  of  the  voice  or  eye;  not  as  if  they 
might  betray  down-heartedness  or  sorrow,  but  ac- 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS         7 

tually  as  If  such  things,  in  their  sublime  assur- 
ance, were  Inconceivable.  That  saying  as  old  as 
history,  that  the  Englishman  never  knows  when 
he  Is  beaten,  may  have  appealed  to  me  before  as 
a  figure  of  speech.  In  a  flash  I  read  its  literal- 
ness. 

A  comrade  of  the  lieutenant's  came  In.  The 
pair  had  not  met  since  the  battle  began  three  days 
before,  and  they  named  over  in  the  same  matter- 
of-fact  way  brother  officers  —  dead. 

"  I  say,"  the  newcomer  leaned  over  toward  me, 
"  how  is  that  cheese  there?  " 

They  asked  me  no  questions,  but  I  was  quite 
frank  with  them,  even  gave  the  Dorsetshire  offi- 
cer, whose  name  was  Burnand,  my  card.  I  told 
the  same  story  that  I  repeated  afterwards  to 
whomever  accosted  me:  that  I  was  an  American 
correspondent,  who,  having  applied  In  proper 
form,  with  the  required  sworn  declaration,  to  ac- 
company the  French  army,  had  come  north  to  look 
at  the  country  where  fighting  might  occur,  and 
been  caught  by  the  British  withdrawal. 

"  Well,  If  I  were  you,"  said  the  cavalry  cap- 
tain across  the  table,  significantly,  "  I'd  get  out  of 
here  the  first  thing  In  the  morning." 

"Why?"  I  demanded.  "Are  you  going  to 
arrest  me?" 

He  simply  stared  through  me  and  said: 

"  The  Germans  aren't  five  miles  north  of  this 


8  FIVE  FRONTS 

bally  place  now.  They'll  be  shelling  It  before  six 
o'clock." 

In  the  passage-way  a  baby  was  crying  with  re- 
lentless piteousness.  The  mother,  in  a  huge  black 
picture  hat,  did  her  best  at  soothing,  but  the 
shrieks  got  on  Burnand's  mind  • —  so  he  said,  at 
least. 

"  Oh,  choke  that  youngster,"  he  kept  mutter- 
ing. "  I'm  nervous  as  a  cat.  I  think  I'd  jump  if 
I  heard  a  door  slam." 

Nervous  I  After  the  carnage  he  had  survived, 
the  mess-mates  he  had  seen  slaughtered,  he 
drawled  this.  He  was  no  more  nervous  than  any 
Englishman  of  his  caste  is  after  a  cricket  game. 
I  never  used  to  believe  in  caste;  but,  if  it  made 
that  young  fellow  what  he  was  then,  I  do. 

"  To-morrow  the  row'll  be  over  toward  Cam- 
brai,  too,"  said  the  moustached  captain.  (Cam- 
brai  was  a  larger  town  ten  miles  west-north- 
west). "  They  burnt  Vertain  and  Solesmes,  just 
above  here,  this  afternoon." 

Here  and  in  the  cafe  outside,  though  always  re- 
fraining from  asking  directly,  I  gathered  details 
of  the  fighting  retreat  lasting  since  Monday. 
Crowded  before,  the  square  was  a  spectacle  which 
only  Meissonier  could  have  portrayed.  The 
khaki  swarm  had  tripled,  massed  around  the  blaze 
and  crackle  of  camp  fires  alone  lighting  the  scene. 
Unsaddled  cavalry  horses,  automobiles  piled  with 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS         9 

sleepers,  infantry  hacking  open  tinned  beef,  cav- 
alrymen lying  down  to  doze  in  their  long  coats, 
jammed  the  last  inch  of  space.  Opposite,  in  the 
ranked  windows  of  the  "  Ecole  des  jeunes  filles," 
the  staff  headquarters,  showed  the  pale  blue  of 
mantle  gas  jets  shining  all  night  upon  the  wounded. 

But  it  was  inside  the  Mouton  Blanc  that  the 
heroisms  and  ignominies  of  war  best  came  into 
their  own.  Men  of  a  Welsh  regiment,  finding  I 
could  speak  English,  crowded  about  in  the  exact, 
pitiful  ignorance  that  Zola  insists  upon.  "  Where 
are  we ?  "  they  asked.  *'  In  France  or  Belgium?  " 
Le  Cateau  tongue-tied  them,  and  each  produced 
a  little  blank-book  and  made  me  write  the  name 
for  him.  "  There,"  laughed  one  of  them.  "  So 
if  they  pick  me  up  after  the  Germans  get  me,  the 
old  lady'U  know  where  it  happened."  It  seemed 
as  If  I  never  stopped  giving  out  cigarettes,  light- 
ing them;  they  had  no  money,  and  had  not  been 
paid  since  coming  to  France.  "  France  " —  as  a 
red-haired  sergeant  said  — "  a  blooming  fine  coun- 
try, if  the  people  weren't  so  oncivlllsed." 

The  attack  of  Sunday  was  drawn,  and  the  pres- 
ent force,  probably  the  British  centre,  had  re- 
tired from  around  Mons  to  the  vicinity  of  Vicq, 
over  the  border  from  Valenciennes.  On  Monday 
the  cavalry  were  to  attack  the  German  artillery, 
supported  by  a  French  column  from  the  east. 
The   enemy,   in   far   greater  numbers,   had   sur- 


10  FIVE  FRONTS 

rounded  themselves  with  barbed  wire,  and  the 
French  failed  to  show  up.  It  was  here  that  the 
slaughter  was  so  severe.  The  infantry,  finding 
it  useless  to  join  in,  had  begun  the  retirement 
south  on  Monday  afternoon,  the  rest  at  daylight 
to-day  (August  25).  All  had  been  on  the  march 
ever  since,  with  the  Germans  close  to  their  heels, 
and  burning  every  village  on  the  roads. 

"  Brought  down  two  of  their  planes  this  morn- 
ing, just  the  same.  You  ever  seen  them?  Got 
wings  like  eagles." 

"  Remember  that  shrapnel,  right  over  our 
heads." 

*'  It  was  the  rain  this  afternoon  saved  us." 

"  Of  course,  they're  mowing  us  down  —  90,- 
000-odd  against  24,000."  (This  moderate  esti- 
mate likely  only  included  the  opposed  wings.) 
"  But  we're  getting  more  of  them.  Why,  the 
blighters  dan't  shoot  a  rifle.  All  our  fellows' 
wounds  are  from  shrapnel  exploding  overhead. 
And  they  squeal  like  pigs  at  bayonets.  Can't 
stand  the  steel,  y'  know." 

"  We're  drawing  them  down  into  France  like 
a  bait,  where  the  Frenchies  can  fight  them  on 
their  own  ground.  The  English  is  on  the  defen- 
sive," explained  the  red  sergeant.  "  Then  the 
French  are  to  close  In  on  them  from  both  sides, 
catch  them  like  rats  in  a  trap." 

All  at  once  a  little  corporal  at  my  elbow,  who 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS       ii 

had  been  eying  me  in  silence,  said,  "  They've 
just  arrested  a  spy  across  the  street." 

"Have  they?"  I  asked,  without  a  quiver,  I 
think,  but  with  a  quick  burning  in  my  chest. 
"  And  what  was  he  doing?  " 

"  Hanging  too  close  around  headquarters. 
One  of  our  men  spotted  him,  and  they  led  him 
away  —  blindfolded.  You  know  what  that 
means." 

I  had  not  yet  been  to  the  police  with  my  papers 
as  I  should  have  done.  But  now  I  talked  a  while 
longer,  and  at  the  first  pause  leisurely  left  the 
cafe,  and  picked  a  way  through  the  prone,  weary 
bodies  to  the  office  seen  in  my  first  round  of  the 
square.  The  official  mannikin  there  simply 
shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  red  seal  on  my  pass- 
port, and  stamped  the  sauf-conduit  with  cer- 
tainly the  last  impression  his  little  machine  has 
given. 

At  midnight  the  two  women  who  ran  the  White 
Sheep  started  to  shoo  the  throng  out.  It  took 
them  half  an  hour,  and  it  was  not  until  the  last 
private  had  gone  and  the  door  was  closed  —  and 
the  baby  and  the  picture  hat  abed  upstairs  —  that 
I  realised  the  pluck  of  that  pair.  It  is  through 
them,  as  much  as  from  the  blind,  contemptuous 
self-confidence  of  Tommy  Atkins,  that  Le  Cateau 
becomes  unforgettable.  One  was  young  and  rosy- 
cheeked,  but  the  other  and  head  of  the  house,  a 


12  FIVE  FRONTS 

sallow,  thin  being,  with  lined  cheeks  and  a  pointed 
jaw,  began  to  relate  to  me  how  many  hundred 
meals  she  had  served  that  day,  how  in  her  bad 
health  the  village  doctor  had  warned  her  that  she 
must  have  rest  and  sleep,  though  she  would  be  up 
at  four  in  the  morning,  making  coffee.^ 

I  wonder  —  I  doubt  —  if  she  is  alive  now. 

"  Hein !  "  she  summed  up  the  evening,  with 
the  national  nod  and  gesture  of  both  hands  to  her 
hips,  at  all  the  litter  and  wreckage  on  the  floor, 
"  C'est  la  guerre." 

In  that,  and  the  next  few  moments,  she  epi- 
tomised the  French  just  as  much  as  Burnand  or 
any  of  the  rest  had  summed  the  Briton.  When 
she  had  helped  me  lift  two  of  the  leather  wall 
benches  into  the  centre  of  the  cafe,  and  thrown  on 
them  a  great  striped  mattress  for  my  bed,  I  asked 
whether  she  would  flee  south  in  the  morning. 

"Go?  Go  away  from  Le  Cateau  —  from 
my  village  —  from  the  Mouton  Blanc?  Why 
should  I  go?  The  German  pigs  will  not  touch 
me,"  she  averred  with  a  sublime  calm,  though  her 
beady  eyes  flashed.  "  Come,  we  will  have  a  bot- 
tle of  champagne.  I  have  been  keeping  it  for 
years." 

And  from  somewhere  the  red-cheeked  girl  pro- 
duced  that   bulging   big   bottle    and   three    slim 

1  British  officers  seen  later  in  Paris  told  mc  that  these  women 
iwere  German  spies. 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  MONS       13 

glasses.  It  had  no  label,  but  was  of  some  good 
old  vintage,  though  a  bit  sweet,  and  we  filled 
and  refilled  with  the  hissing  stuff,  drinking: 
"  Vive  la  France !  "  and  gossiping  about  les  beaux 
Anglais,  and  her  son  who  was  with  the  army  to 
the  east,  until  quite  two  o'clock. 


II 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI 

The  thing  that  toward  four  o'clock  stirred  me 
from  the  doze  I  was  just  falling  into  strikes  the 
keynote,  I  think,  better  than  anything  else  in 
those  vivid  three  days,  of  this  epochal  war. 
There  was  no  reveille,  no  sound  of  a  bugle ;  only, 
echoing  through  the  silence  and  ashen  light  of  that 
square,  the  cry: 

"  Doctor  1  Doctor!  Doctor!"  And  again, 
and  repeated,  "  Doctor!  " 

Over  in  the  girls'  school  some  one  —  lord  or 
Manchester  apprentice  —  was  in  his  throes.  As 
morning  broke  I  slipped  out  alone  into  the  square, 
now  nearly  empty.  The  last  of  the  infantry  were 
trailing  off  westward  through  the  town;  the  cav- 
alry and  artillery  up  the  street  I  had  descended  in 
the  night.     I  followed  them. 

All  along  to  the  railroad  station  on  the  hill, 
which  was  deserted  and  locked,  the  folk  of  Le 
Cateau  stood  in  knots  upon  the  curb.  Not  at 
their  doorsteps,  mind,  which  is  the  place  for  gos- 
sip, but  speechless,  drawn-faced,  loaded  with  cloth 
bundles  linked  to  throw  upon  their  shoulders, 
turning  heads  from  their  homes  toward  a  flight 

14 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI     15 

they  knew  not  where.  I  took  up  a  position  on 
top  of  the  hill,  where  for  an  hour  the  pathetic 
stream  grew  and  swept  southeast  toward  La 
Groise,  while  southward  on  the  St.  Quentin  road, 
after  the  artillery  and  cavalry,  and  on  the  route 
I  had  resolved  to  take,  trudged  an  endless  stream 
of  peasants'  wagons. 

Sunlight  began  to  glance  across  the  rolling 
fields,  yellow  with  stacked  wheat  sheaves,  through 
the  delicate  bosks  of  willows.  Toward  six 
o'clock,  suddenly  boomed  out  the  heavy  staccato 
of  artillery,  as  yet  invisible.  Then  along  the 
brow  of  the  opposite  ridge  to  the  north,  not  a  mile 
away,  appeared  long  lines  of  racing  heads  —  cav- 
alry from  their  undulating  motion,  the  Uhlans, 
though  the  summit  hid  their  horses.  Puck-puck. 
.  .  .  Puck-puck-puck,  broke  out  bullets  from  ma- 
chine guns  on  all  the  roofs  around. 

I  sat  on  a  stone  at  the  entrance  of  an  inn-yard. 
The  increasing  fire,  too  high  yet  by  thirty  feet 
to  hurt,  neither  quickened  the  speed  of  the  pro- 
cession passing  under  the  railway  bridge  nor  made 
a  single  face  turn.  Behind  the  inn,  a  two-horse 
'bus  which  had  long  been  waiting  empty,  filled 
with  the  stout  proprietor,  his  wife  in  black  baize 
carrying  a  thrush  in  a  wooden  cage,  and  their 
three  bare-legged  boys.  They  trundled  away. 
All  at  once  not  a  vehicle  or  refugee  was  in  sight; 
and  then,  up  the  empty  street,  came  the  last  of 


1 6  FIVE  FRONTS 

them,  a  woman.  She  could  not  have  been  less 
than  eighty  years  old,  and  was  all  alone.  Clad  in 
her  best  black,  without  goods  of  any  sort,  she 
wore  a  quaint  poke  bonnet,  riding  in  a  small  two- 
wheeled  rick.  Brave,  stolid,  tearless,  perched  on 
her  high  nest  of  clean  straw,  she  croaked  the  cry, 
that  of  every  driver  who  had  passed,  to  her 
stumbling,  skinny  pony:  "Vil  Vi !  Vi!" — and 
vanished. 

Of  those  who  quitted  it  all,  I  think  that  I  was 
the  last  to  leave  Le  Cateau.  As  the  clatter  of 
bullets  descended,  I  edged  along  this  upper  road, 
the  bottle  of  spring  water  I  had  taken  from  the 
White  Sheep  in  my  hand,  toward  a  brick  factory 
with  a  grotesque  tin  windshield  on  its  chimney. 
Suddenly  across  the  valley,  and  behind  where  the 
German  cavalry  still  were  passing,  appeared  a 
mass  of  English  artillery,  and  the  sight  of  them 
sweeping  down  the  slope,  swinging  to  park  them- 
selves behind  the  cover  of  a  grove,  was  stirring 
in  its  perfectness.  A  bullet  —  a  wild  shot  — 
pricked  up  the  dust  not  ten  feet  from  my  stand, 
and  I  slipped  behind  the  factory,  just  as  the  ma- 
chine-gun rattle  broke  out  upon  its  sphnterlng  win- 
dows. 

The  shrapnel,  too,  was  growing  louder  and 
closer.  In  modern  battles,  of  course,  with  the 
front  extending  fifteen  miles  or  more  —  perhaps 
of  only  one  wing  —  you  cannot  pick  the  site  of 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI     17 

butchery,  especially  when  only  afoot.  An  old 
man  in  a  blue  jumper  came  out  of  a  shed,  and 
started  dumbly  with  me  down  the  fields  to  the 
now  vacant  Bohain-St.  Quentin  road,  where  the 
cavalry  had  passed,  and  in  the  direction  of  the 
Germans.  There  was  a  bridge  and  stream  there, 
making  back,  toward  a  mill  under  the  railway  em- 
bankment, and  the  fellow  headed  toward  this, 
as  I  sat  waiting  in  a  ditch  for  fully  half  an 
hour. 

Nearby  lay  a  horse,  his  legs  horizontally  not 
touching  the  ground,  as  always  in  the  first  mo- 
ments of  death.  The  parked  artillery  should 
have  been  but  a  rod  away,  but  I  could  not  find 
them.  Only  the  German  shells,  passing  lower 
overhead  with  their  peculiar,  steely  elastic  whif- 
fling —  like  loud  invisible  ghosts  —  sent  me  off 
again.  The  peasants  along  the  road,  aroused 
later  than  the  people  of  the  town,  were  just  be-, 
ginning  to  emerge  from  behind  their  hedges.  In 
about  a  mile  I  caught  up  with  an  old  couple. 
The  man  was  lame  and  hobbled  on  a  white  stick, 
his  wife  carried  nothing  but  a  little  basket,  and 
when  I  tried  to  take  it  from  her,  to  help  her 
along,  she  resisted  me. 

"  C'est  epouvantable,"  I  said. 

"  Non,  non,"  she  muttered.  "  J'ai  de  la  dou- 
leur  —  douleur." 

Grief  —  that    strange     French    word.     How 


1 8  FIVE  FRONTS 

much  it  always  means,  but  on  her  thin  lips  its 
force  was  —  universal. 

Soon  a  drab  line  of  bicycle  scouts  came  along, 
but  heading  back  toward  Le  Cateau.  I  told  them 
of  the  cavalry  up  on  the  slope.  "  Yes,"  said 
their  freckled  leader,  "  it's  a  circling  movement, 
to  the  east  around  the  town."  As  they  wheeled 
on,  the  last  in  line  stared  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  bottle  of  water,  and  I  heard  him  mutter  to 
the  man  ahead  something  which  sounded  like 
"  spy."  Then  came  the  trundling  ammunition 
wagons,  and  on  the  last  of  them,  sprawled  on 
his  back,  all  his  limbs  bobbing  nervelessly,  with 
blanched  face  and  open  mouth,  lay  a  youngster 
wounded.  Next  cavalry.  One  fellow  with 
a  small  moustache  beckoned  me,  for  a  drink,  I 
thought,  but  when  I  offered  him  the  bottle,  he 
shoved  it  almost  angrily  aside,  and  I  gave  him 
the  cigarette  he  wanted,  for  he  had  seen  me 
smoking. 

Two  young  women,  each  wheeling  a  baby  car- 
riage, passed. 

"  Look  at  those  blighters,"  said  the  trooper, 
feelingly.  "  It's  them  that's  getting  it  worse 
than  any  of  us  boys.  Our  business,  this.  But 
them  —  it's  they  we  should  collect  the  account 
from  Kaiser  Bill  for.  Hello,  there's  one  of  our 
'planes." 

A  biplane,  a  Voisin,  by  its  shorter  under  wing, 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI     19 

was  clattering  up  from  the  south.  A  motorcycle, 
with  a  big  scout  buried  to  his  ears  in  a  greenish 
raincoat,  zizzed  past  toward  Le  Cateau.  Paus- 
ing, he  shouted  something,  and  the  squad  of  cav- 
alry turned  and  sprang  up  a  lane  to  the  right. 
Beyond  more  stood  up  there.  A  little  village 
close  down  the  slope  swarmed  with  them,  wait- 
ing on  both  sides  of  the  road.  But  when  the  first 
horseman  was  close,  for  what  reason  I  cannot  now 
explain,  I  threw  the  glass  bottle  into  the  ditch. 
Did  they  think  I  was  offering  them  poison,  or 
that  the  thing  was  some  signal  for  the  watching 
enemy? 

Just  beyond  the  houses,  appeared  the  elusive 
artillery.  In  crossing  from  fields  on  the  left  to 
the  right  side  of  the  road  at  furious  speed,  a  box 
of  biscuits  from  a  supply  wagon  jolted  out  and 
smashed,  scattering  its  contents.  A  square-faced 
young  peasant  with  the  bloom  of  outdoors,  in 
brown  corduroy  trousers,  who  had  been  dogging 
me,  asked  rough  questions  in  his  patois,  threw  off 
his  coat  and  filled  it  with  the  grub,  which  he  prof- 
fered. Over  the  biscuits  we  reached  an  under- 
standing, and  I  consented  to  hint  who  I  was. 

"  An  American,"  I  said,  as  we  trudged  on. 

"  Maroc?"  he  stared.  "Maroccan?"  (Mor- 
occan.) 

I  could  not  make  him  comprehend.  It  was  in- 
deed to  wonder,  among  the  many  misdoubts  of 


20  FIVE  FRONTS 

republicanism  you  get  in  France,  on  the  quality  of 
popular  schooling. 

On  top  of  the  rise,  one  looked  back  two  miles, 
clear  to  the  roofs  of  Le  Cateau  showing  above  its 
hollow,  and  dominated  by  the  great  Roman  dome 
of  the  town  church.  The  motor-scout  in  the  rain- 
coat shot  past,  returning;  stopped  under  an  elm 
tree.  When  I  approached  him,  he  recognised 
having  passed  me  back  on  the  road,  and  I  volun- 
teered the  true  and  consistent  reason  for  my  pres- 
ence. He  was  a  huge,  placid  being  with  curly 
sorrel  hair.  The  coat  hid  his  rank  or  rating,  and 
at  first  he  answered  nothing  except  to  point  back 
at  Le  Cateau,  and  say: 

"  Look  at  her  burn.     Already." 

Dense  clouds  of  smoke  rose  to  the  left  of  the 
church.  Further  north  (that  direction)  the  wink- 
ing flashes  of  artillery,  the  scattering  detonations, 
with  their  potent,  killing  sound,  showed  the  ene- 
my's position. 

"  Do  they  fire  all  these  towns  with  shrapnel?  " 
I  asked. 

"  No.  Generally  with  petrol,  when  they're  in- 
side." 

A  bearded  peasant  in  a  black  shirt  and  sus- 
penders ran  past  toward  the  conflagration,  to- 
ward home  and  family,  surely,  crying  in  falsetto, 
"  Le  Cateau  incends!"  The  boy  in  corduroy 
laughed  at  him  in  a   foolish  way.     The   scout 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI    21 

looked  hungrily  across  the  road,  where  he  was  eat- 
ing biscuits,  and  remarked  that  he  had  had  no 
breakfast.  I  fetched  him  a  couple,  and  for  awhile 
we  sat  under  a  wheat-cock  munching  in  silence. 
Down  in  the  hollow  the  great  mass  of  cavalry 
were  beginning  some  manoeuvre  at  a  gallop. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  scout,  rising.  "  You'll  see 
something."  And  he  went  on  to  explain  how  the 
force  in  sight  was  preparing  to  take  the  offensive 
against  the  turning  movement  of  the  Germans  to 
the  east,  which  the  cyclists  had  spoken  of.  To- 
ward that  quarter  the  land  sloped  upward.  One 
mass  of  the  cavalry,  under  cover  of  the  artillery, 
who  were  to  open  fire  as  soon  as  the  former  rushed 
the  approaching  enemy's  position,  from  the  con- 
cealment of  the  rise,  ranged  themselves  in  the 
open.  To  the  right  and  close  at  hand,  the  sup- 
porting cavalry  gathered  behind  a  dense  grove, 
hidden  and  ready  to  swing  out  and  overpower. 

"  They're  wizards,  these  Germans,"  said  the 
scout,  "  at  masking  their  artillery." 

Till  well  past  noon  we  waited  for  this  conflict. 
But  the  hours  went  like  lightning.  The  shell 
fire  around  the  town  waxed  furious.  Pale  flashes 
pricked  themselves  out  yonder,  like  a  long  fuse 
lighting  intermittently  at  dozens  of  points.  Over 
the  drifting  haze  from  the  invisible  guns,  the 
bursting  shrapnel  showed  itself  in  shapes  of  tiny, 
woolly-white  clouds  spawning  in  the   clear  sky, 


22  FIVE  FRONTS 

expanding  magically.  Though  the  wind  was 
strongly  toward  them,  the  thundering,  the  ugly 
menace,  was  deafening,  desolating.  Sometimes 
smoke  hid  the  church  dome.  Powder  gleams 
broke  out  between  us  and  it.  A  few  shells  burst 
directly  over  the  hamlet  where  the  cavalry  had 
been,  not  a  quarter-mile  away. 

"  They're  getting  our  range,"  said  my  friend. 
*'  We  better  get  out  of  this." 

But  we  no  more  than  crossed  the  road  to  the 
foolish  cover  of  a  larger  tree.  The  scout, 
who  had  left  his  motorcycle  against  the  wheat- 
sheaves,  sauntered  back  for  it,  remarking,  "  That 
was  silly  of  me."  Peasants  from  the  next  village 
south,  Busigny,  grouped  around  us,  and  he  idly 
warned  them  away.  A  beautiful,  dark-faced  girl, 
with  raven  hair,  approached  him,  and  said  with  a 
deliberate  winningness  —  French  of  the  French 
that  she  was  in  those  thrilling  moments: 

"  Monsieur,  vous  n'avez  pas  peur?" 

Flirting  on  the  battlefield!  Who  but  a  Fran- 
9aise? 

The  man  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  The  youth 
in  corduroy  was  gazing  with  his  tongue  out.  A 
grey  touring  car  with  three  officers,  two  English 
and  a  French  cuirassier,  which  had  flown  past  be- 
fore, halted  and  they  got  out,  pointing  and  open- 
ing their  maps.  As  the  scout  joined  them,  I  dis- 
creetly backed  off  twenty  yards,  not  to  be  seen  lis- 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI    23 

tening  to  the  talk.  The  Englishman,  a  stout,  sal- 
low man  with  the  ratings  of  a  major,  was  the 
ranking  officer;  the  other  was  grizzle-haired  and 
very  thin;  the  Frenchman,  with  the  brass  ridge 
down  the  back  of  his  helmet  like  those  you  see  on 
ancient  coins,  and  horse  hair  hanging  to  the  mid- 
dle of  his  back  —  in  scarlet  trousers  and  azure 
coat  —  looked  comic-opera-like,  an  Impertinence. 
And  plainly  he  was  a  supernumerary,  bobbing 
about  unheeded,  In  the  conference  which,  from 
the  Englishmen's  gestures,  showed  the  strategy 
going  to  their  satisfaction.  It  must  have  been  an 
hour  before  they  tooled  away,  and  in  that  time, 
to  my  chagrin,  the  artillery  fire  seemed  to  relax; 
though  all  at  once  close  to,  in  the  woods  to  the 
left,  but  aiming  away  from  us,  broke  out  a  second 
focus  of  flashing  thunder. 

"  Our  guns,"  said  the  scout,  as  I  returned  to 
him.     "  We're  driving  them." 

The  cavalry  below  were  breaking  positions, 
galloping  in  all  directions.  More  appeared  on 
the  ridge  south  of  where  the  enemy  had  been  ex- 
pected. On  our  opposite  side,  long  lines  of  troops 
—  infantry  —  marched  south  on  a  hidden  road. 
Another  motor-scout,  even  younger,  red-faced  and 
lithe,  with  a  tiny  black  moustache,  dashed  up  for  a 
moment,  and  as  he  left  turned  to  me,  demanding 
briskly,  "  I  say,  by  the  way,  what  are  you  doing 
here?"     But  he  rode  off  before  I  could  answer, 


24  FIVE  FRONTS 

bidding  so-long  to  my  first  friend,  calling  him  by 
name,  "  Walker." 

Again  we  were  alone  on  the  bank  under  the 
barbed  wire  fence,  except  for  the  peasants.  It  was 
covered  with  red  clover,  and  all  at  once  I  found 
a  four-leaved  specimen  and  gave  it  to  "  Mr. 
Walker,"  who  stuck  it  in  his  cap  with  a  vague 
smile.  The  boy  in  corduroys  began  to  gag  and 
point  into  the  sky  over  the  marching  infantry, 
where  the  rattle  of  cylinders  had  again  broken 
forth. 

"  German  'plane,  by  — !  "  exclaimed  the  scout. 
"  Look  at  her  turned-back  wings." 

By  the  angle  in  each  'plane,  the  resemblance  to 
an  eagle,  or  a  buzzard,  was  uncanny.  It  was 
steering  straight  for  us,  some  500  metres  high, 
but  before  the  breathless  instant  when  it  hung 
straight  overhead  and  then  banked  away  east- 
ward, the  Infantry  massed  on  the  other  road  gave 
it  a  crackling  defiance  with  their  rifles. 

"  Our  men  over  there,  then,"  said  Walker, 
cranking  his  cycle.  *'  I  was  wondering  who  they 
were,"  he  drawled,  and  without  a  word  of  parting 
whisked  away  down  the  rear  slope. 

The  cavalry,  too,  were  withdrawing.  I  saw  my 
chance  of  seeing  any  carnage  vanish.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  retreat  also,  in  company  with  the 
ejaculatory  peasant,  and  join  the  baby  carriage 
procession  forming  from  all  the  houses  in  the  vil- 


BATTLE  OF  LE  CATEAU-CAMBRAI    25 

lage  of  Busigny.  At  last  the  boy  left  me  —  turned 
abruptly  with  a  curt  adieu  and  his  coatful  of  Eng- 
lish crackers  into  the  high  hedge  of  the  first  brick 
farm  —  pondering  over  Walker's  manner  at  his 
job. 

Plainly  it  was  he  who  had  been  responsible  for 
the  operations  at  this  small  point  of  the  terrible 
fight  on  that  August  26.  Yet  not  once  had  he 
shown  the  smallest  worry,  the  least  tension.  He 
had  never  raised  his  voice,  more  than  smiled  in- 
scrutably. Often  in  levelling  his  glasses  he  had 
seemed  exasperatingly  slow,  not  to  say  stupid,  in 
distinguishing  lines  of  trees  from  troops,  and  so 
forth.  His  calm  was  exasperating;  he  did  not 
even  seem  alert;  half  a  dozen  times  I  had  called  at- 
tention to  distant  movements,  at  which  he  would 
say,  first  taking  a  bite  of  biscuit,  "  Ah,  yes.  I 
must  look  at  that,"  and  languidly  level  his  binocu- 
lars. I  bethought  myself  of  an  American  on  such 
a  job  —  his  tiptoe,  braced  concentration.  But 
could  I  swear  to  any  gain  in  efficiency  by  that? 


Ill 

ST.  QUENTIN  AND  THE  AFTERMATH 

BusiGNY  poured  forth  its  placid,  terrorised 
mothers  and  old  men.  All  seemed  too  poor  for 
travelling  in  vehicles.  I  found  myself  behind  a 
couple,  on  one  side  their  little  girl  hugging  a  tiger 
kitty  in  her  cape,  on  the  other  a  tow-haired  boy  of 
twelve  with  a  great  pair  of  boots  clasped  on  his 
arms.  Out  of  a  courtyard  swung  a  dog-cart, 
drawn  by  two  brindle  hounds,  its  load  covered  with 
a  pink  tablecloth.  It  was  too  heavy  for  the  poor 
dogs,  unwieldy  for  the  woman  and  child,  who 
guided  it  from  behind.  For  quite  a  kilometre  I 
helped  them,  shoving  from  the  gutter  as  the  beasts 
ran  amuck  in  their  haste,  urging  on  the  panting 
dogs  when  they  lay  down  exhausted.  And  then, 
after  we  struck  a  slope,  I  watched  them  rumble  off 
—  the  peasant's  big  splay  feet  furiously  trudging 
In  her  shapeless  shoes,  shoulders  swinging  in  her 
black  waist  which  yet  had  a  touch  of  elegance  in  its 
cut. 

Enraging  —  the  word  was  not  enough,  with 
that  ruthless  booming  and  those  bloody  hearts  so 
close  behind.  But  branding  savagery  with  venom 
is  quite  useless.     It  was  useless,  too,  trying  to 

26 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     27 

soften  the  tragedy  by  remembering  that  the  fore- 
bears of  these  folk,  for  the  500  years  from  Philip 
II  to  Napoleon,  had  endured  just  such  terror  and 
eviction.  The  home  is  the  home,  gunpowder  and 
the  sword  its  curse,  whether  to  white  lord,  French 
peasant,  or  Hottentot. 

I  stopped  in  a  dingy  cafe  for  a  glass  of  home- 
brewed beer,  sitting  at  the  table  by  an  old  man  with 
one  tooth  in  his  withered  jaws.  He  had  seven 
grandsons  at  the  front,  he  told  me.  He  was  a 
weaver  "  de  tissu,"  he  explained,  "  all  for  the 
American  trade;  "  this  with  a  craftsman's  twirl  of 
his  fingers,  when  I  had  claimed  my  nationality. 
He  had  seen  the  Prussians  forty-four  years  ago 
march  down  this  same  road.  No;  he  was  not  go- 
ing —  he  had  nowhere  to  go. 

The  rumble  of  heavier  firing  brought  me  out- 
side. Twice  I  started  back  up  the  Le  Cateau 
road,  twice  returned.  This  new  outburst  was  far- 
ther west,  toward  Cambrai,  where  it  now  seems 
that  the  Gordon  Highlanders  were  being  so  cruelly 
slaughtered  even  then.  My  police  papers  only 
allowed  a  return  to  Paris  on  that  day;  the  British 
were  getting  to  know  me  too  well.  To  be  discov- 
ered back-trailing  in  this  guarded,  forbidden  region 
might  be  fatal.  My  case,  if  I  were  taken,  might 
hang  on  the  personality  and  mood  of  the  first  of- 
ficer faced,  and  at  this  time  of  such  terrible  losses, 
in  this  march  on  which  the  fate  of  France  and  Eng- 


28  FIVE  FRONTS 

land,  at  least,  depended,  indulgence  was  the  last 
thing  to  expect. 

Anyhow,  I  could  not  have  reached  that  focus  of 
fighting  before  dark.  I  headed  south  for  Bohain, 
covering  the  last  four,  of  the  ten  miles  on  foot  from 
Le  Cateau,  utterly  ignorant  of  the  surprise  in  wait 
for  me  there. 

Bohain  is  —  or  was?  —  a  smaller  town  than  Le 
Cateau,  but  with  wider  streets.  I  made  for  the 
railway  station,  which  was  barred  as  usual;  got 
bread,  cheese,  and  red  wine  in  the  buffet  hotel, 
and  asked  a  train  guard  in  a  red  cap  where  I  could 
charter  a  wagon  to  drive  to  St.  Quentin.  This 
was  impossible,  he  said,  in  the  glut  of  refugees; 
nor  could  I  hire  a  bicycle,  though  one  might  be 
bought.  He  took  me  opposite  the  mairie  to  a 
store  full  of  wheels,  but  I  thought  their  prices  too 
stiff.  I  wanted  to  tell  the  woman  in  the  blue  waist 
who  sold  them  that  she  might  as  well  give  me  one, 
as  to-morrow  the  Germans  would  be  with  her; 
but  so  certain  and  gloomy  a  prophecy  might  arouse 
suspicion.  Vain  care.  As  a  fact,  what  happened 
was  likely  a  piece  of  spite  on  the  red-cap's  part,  he 
having  some  tie  with  the  woman. 

I  left  him  outside  the  shop,  and  was  headed  for 
the  Hotel  du  Nord  on  a  last  try  for  a  wagon, 
when  a  shout  went  up  behind  me,  and  a  hand  fell 
on  my  shoulder. 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     29 

From  doorways,  alleys,  side-streets,  crowds 
scurried  across  the  cobbles,  as  though  I  were  a 
dog-fight.  "Espion!  Espion!  (spy),"  went  up 
cries  from  the  dense,  menacing  mob,  of  which  in- 
stantly I  was  the  centre.  The  fingers  that  gripped 
me  belonged  to  a  Teuton-looking  creature  with  a 
pointed  blonde  beard.  A  hollow  feeling  crept 
under  my  ribs,  but  I  had  sense  enough  not  to  shake 
him  off,  and  to  brace  my  wits. 

"  Wohin  gehen  Sie?  "  demanded  he,  letting  go. 

*'  To  St.  Quentin,"  I  answered,  in  French. 

"  But  that  is  not  the  road  to  St.  Quentin  which 
we  find  you  taking,"  said,  in  English,  a  short,  sal- 
low man  in  a  felt  hat.  Score  one  for  them.  All 
around  the  notes  of  anger  became  derisive.  I 
started  to  explain  in  English  about  the  Hotel  dui 
Nord  and  a  carriage;  but  the  first  fellow  cut  in, 
roughly : 

"  Sprechen  Sie  Deutsch?  " 

"  Je  ne  comprends  pas,"  I  said,  "  parlez  Ang- 
lais." 

Score  two.  "Ah!"  exclaimed  the  pointed 
beard,  triumphantly. 

"  You  answer  him,  you  understand,  when  he 
asks  you  in  German  where  you  are  going,"  ex- 
plained the  other.  "  Then  you  say  you  cannot 
speak  German." 

"  Look  here,"  I  said,  with  a  good  English  cuss- 


30  FIVE  FRONTS 

word.     "Do  you   think  Fm   a   spy  —  espion?" 

"  Si!  "  shouted  the  crowd.  "  Si!  "  And  my 
captors  nodded. 

Then  all  gave  gangway  to  a  dumpy,  bald  little 
man,  with  eye-glasses  on  a  gold  chain,  who  plainly, 
from  his  interceding,  worried  air,  had  been  hsten- 
ing  on  the  fringes. 

"  Monsieur  le  maire,"  indicated  the  felt  hat, 
and  they  all  fell  jabbering  among  themselves. 
Blonde  beard  repeated  the  damning  evidence  of 
his  verbal  ruse,  but  I  saw  at  once  that  in  the 
mayor,  gesticulating  and  declaring  that  I  was  Eng- 
lish, lay  a  partisan. 

"  Fm  an  American,"  I  corrected  him,  whipping 
out  my  passport.  "  Who  are  these  two  —  de- 
tectives? " 

"  Detectives  of  the  police,"  said  the  sallow  one. 

"  Then  let's  go  to  the  police  station,"  I  said, 
"  so  you  can  see  all  my  papers." 

We  started,  ploughing  through  the  eddying, 
noisy  crowd.  I  beguiled  the  felt  hat  with  the 
same  true,  plausible  story  told  to  the  British.  On 
the  mayor's  desk,  just  inside  the  grey  stone  build- 
ing, I  spread  out  every  paper  and  card  I  had  — 
even  my  Navy  pass  used  at  Vera  Cruz.  The  po- 
lice papers  he  studied  under  a  stubby  finger,  mut- 
tering, holding  his  glasses  half  way  between  them 
and  his  eyes;  he  even  massaged  the  red  seal  on  the 
passport,  nodding  with  proper  official  unction,  and 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     31 

laid  a  friendly  paw  on  my  coat.  By  the  time  the 
sallow  man  had  translated  each  English  sentence, 
the  day  was  won,  and  the  mayor  got  busy  with  the 
municipal  stamper  to  allow  me  to  enter  St.  Quentin. 
Only  the  creature  so  proud  of  his  dialectics  re- 
mained sullen,  kept  going  over  his  case,  as  more  to 
explain  than  accuse.  But  I  had  had  to  prove  that 
my  knowledge  of  German  was  limited  to  "  Kenn 
nicht,"  and  "  Liebst  du^ 

Pocketing  my  papers,  I  was  only  shy  of  the 
throng  still  around;  and  that  most  as  a  matter  of 
injured  pride.  Out  went  the  felt  hat  and  shouted 
to  them,  and  when  he  came  back  for  me,  and  we 
crossed  to  the  same  bicycle  store,  all  were  hang- 
ing idly  on  the  corners,  gazing  unconvinced  but  ap- 
peased. I  felt  my  cue  was  to  quit  the  place  as  fast 
as  possible,  and  since  by  wheel  was  the  only  way, 
I  blew  myself  to  the  dearest  one  in  the  blue  lady's 
stock.  The  sallow  man  helped  pump  up  the  tires, 
and  as  we  shook  hands  out  in  the  street  leading  to- 
ward St.  Quentin,  I  reflected  how  no  man  like  me, 
American  or  not,  would  have  stood  any  show  if 
he  knew  German,  and  thanked  my  stars  that  it  was 
the  civil,  not  the  military,  authority  into  whose 
hands  I  had  fallen.     They  were  easy. 

It  was  sixteen  miles  to  St.  Quentin.  But  I  had 
not  gone  two  before  I  ran  into  friend  Walker,  the 
motor-scout,  leaning  his  machine  against  a  stone 
water  trough.     Already  having  confided  in  him 


32  FIVE  FRONTS 

my  apprehensions,  how  the  lines  had  closed  about 
me,  I  remarked,  "  Well,  I  got  pinched  after  all," 
and  he  answered  my  laugh  with  his  usual  unbetray- 
ing  smile. 

"  Been  running  down  this  way,"  he  said,  rather 
thickly,  "  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  use.  It's  — 
it's  been  a  bad  day,  I'm  afraid." 

*'  To  the  westward  —  Cambrai  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  we  can't  tell  much  yet." 

A  double  motor-cycle,  bearing  a  set-faced 
woman  nurse  in  white,  shot  up  the  road  thither. 
A  stout  girl  panted  up  to  us,  and  began  to  ask 
Walker's  advice  whether  or  not  she  should  quit 
her  home.  Behind,  the  noise  of  battle  was  flag- 
ging. 

"  Tell,  her,"  said  he  to  me,  as  I  interpreted, 
"  that  it's  safer  to  leave  it  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Then  go  back." 

And  always,  like  the  Cheshire  cat,  he  disap- 
peared abruptly. 

The  girl  called  the  Germans  "  Les  Prussiens  " 
—  as  all  the  peasants  did. 

I  pedalled  on  south  and  soon  caught  up  with  a 
young  civilian  in  spectacles,  who  looked  like  a 
student.  He  had  been  making  a  sort  of  century 
run  on  his  wheel  through  surrounding  towns,  and 
the  war  seemed  remote  as  America  to  him.  We 
entered  St.  Quentin  together,  I  leaving  him  in  its 
wooded  Champs  Elysees,  to  seek  out  the  poHce 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     33 

station  and  forestall  suspicion  by  getting  niy  papers 
stamped  for  the  trip  to  Paris.  Surely  here  the 
railroad  was  still  running. 

But  nothing  was  more  astounding  than  the 
change  that  came  over  that  quiet  old  city  in  the 
next  hours.  A  place  of  some  50,000  people, 
equidistant  with  Rheims  and  Amiens  from  Paris, 
its  twelfth-century  church  is  "  starred  "  in  Baed- 
eker, together  with  the  exquisite  pointed  arches 
of  the  mediaeval  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  the  police 
commissariat  was.  The  prefect  there  vised  me 
without  question.  A  few  English  officers  were 
shooting  about  in  grey  motors,  but  for  the  rest  the 
place  was  normal.  Trolleys  were  running,  and 
the  only  railroad  station,  where  in  trying  to  check 
my  bicycle,  I  lost  a  train  just  leaving,  two  hours 
late,  was  jammed  with  refugees.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  across  the  canal,  I  got  a  regular  dinner  in 
the  Hotel  Metropole.  Crowded  it  was,  of  course, 
so  I  had  to  hire  the  proprietor's  windowless  sit- 
ting-room, with  a  piano  and  queer  draperies,  to  lie 
down  for  a  wink  on  the  sofa  until  the  1 1 130  train 
left. 

I  was  wakened  by  two  officers,  one  French  and 
one  English,  bursting  into  the  room,  and  starting 
to  spread  blankets  on  the  floor.  The  first  hardly 
noticed  me,  but  the  second  stared  so,  that  I  re- 
marked sleepily  that  I  was  an  American.  "  Yes," 
answered  he,  curtly,  "  I  can  see  that."     What  he 


34  FIVE  FRONTS 

may  have  had  in  mind  I  never  knew.  A  knowl- 
edge of  my  trespass,  in  the  turmoil  reigning  with- 
out, might  have  just  been  barely  overlooked. 

The  hotel,  the  square,  were  in  an  uproar.  It 
was  Le  Cateau  over  again,  amid  a  population  five 
times  its  size.  Groaning  motor-buses,  the  thud 
of  artillery  and  ammunition  wagons,  the  clatter  of 
cavalry,  of  lancers  —  all  except  infantry  —  the 
shouts  of  officers,  some  carrying  maps  in  their 
hands,  filled  the  clear  night.  You  could  not  force 
through  the  surging  crowd  of  citizens  outside  the 
station.  Suddenly  as  I  waited  there,  arose  the 
shout,  "  Gangway  for  the  wounded !  " 

Down  the  hill  was  coming  a  long  line  of  huge 
motors,  each  roofed  with  canvas,  and  bearing  on 
both  sides  a  great  red  cross.  For  more  than  an 
hour  a  double  stream  of  them  halted  at  both  en- 
trances to  the  station,  disgorging  the  wounded. 
Some  could  walk,  their  heads  already  swathed  in 
white ;  all  struggled  to.  Most  were  carried,  their 
arms  around  the  necks  of  two  comrades,  who 
linked  hands  under  them.  A  few  were  open- 
mouthed  and  very  pale,  many  asleep  or  uncon- 
scious. The  crowds  stared,  awed  and  breathless, 
until  an  exclamation  of  pity  burst  out  from  some 
woman  loaded  with  her  baby  or  the  household 
goods. 

No  train  that  night  for  any  but  the  dying. 
(None  at  all  in  the  morning.)     Back  in  the  cafe  of 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH    35 

the  Metropole,  filling  with  exhausted  officers,  the 
tables  were  all  askew  and  some  chairs  overturned. 
The  pink-cheeked  young  wife  of  the  proprietor 
was  serving  cheese  and  coffee  in  tall  glasses  to 
whoever  wanted  them,  free.  Spoken  to,  she  an- 
swered incomprehensively,  and  hurried  behind  her 
counter.  A  bronzed  cavalry  captain,  thirstily  sip- 
ping his  coffee,  was  telling  a  brother  officer  with  a 
dust-stained  face,  how  in  one  place  the  ground  had 
been  so  ploughed  with  shells  that  he  could  not  pick 
a  way  among  them. 

"  We're  beaten,  all  along,"  he  said.  "  Done 
—  that's  what  we  are." 

And  when  a  Briton  admits  that  —  I  But  it  was 
only  the  reflex  groan  of  an  instant. 

"  Forty  thousand  French,  y'  know,  ought  to 
have  attacked  from  the  west  at  eleven  this  morn- 
ing," he  went  on.  "  Had  forty  miles  to  march, 
and  didn't  come  up  till  too  late.  Not  much  left  of 
the  Ninth  Lancers,  they  say." 

"  Fighting  four  days  now  without  a  rest,"  re- 
viewed another.  "  Well,  the  Germans  boasted 
they'd  be  in  Paris  in  eight  from  the  frontier,  and 
it  isn't  half  way  to  here.  We'll  stand  them  off 
yet.  This  drawing  scheme,  to  fight  in  the  French- 
men's own  country,  is  bound  to  win." 

"  Hear  the  French  got  at  them  after  dark," 
recovered  the  first  speaker,  "  mashed  them  like 
flies."     And  wholly  braced  from  his  moment  of 


36  FIVE  FRONTS 

despair,  he  had  the  generosity  to  add,  "  They're 
making  a  wonderful  advance,  these  Germans." 

"  Of  fifty-eight  men  with  me,  I  mustered  five  at 
six  o'clock." 

"  Infantry  scattered  all  over  the  country,  look- 
ing for  companies  that  have  been  wiped  out." 

"  It's  —  it's  staggering." 

And  a  third  officer  went  on  to  tell  how  he  had 
shot  a  German  officer  behind  a  tree,  on  refusing 
to  surrender.  Wounded,  two  peasants  had  helped 
him  off  to  the  German  lines.  "  They'll  get  blamed 
for  it,  of  course,  and  killed  if  the  fellow  dies. 
These  poor  people  —  it's  they,  not  us,  who  suffer 
in  the  end  most." 

That  calm  indomitable  spirit  of  the  English  — 
beaten  yet  unaware  of  it;  decimated,  but  still  con- 
fidently holding  ground  and  pitying  for  respite. 
Clear-headed,  resolute,  facing  the  issue  cheerfully, 
not  self-deceived !  Frankly,  I  felt  a  kind  of  anger. 
Twice,  perhaps,  at  critical  moments  the  French 
had  failed  them,  but  of  reproach,  even  of  criticism, 
in  all  those  three  days,  I  heard  not  one  word.  In 
this  great  drawing  movement,  the  English,  who  do 
not  know  how  to  run,  had  been  given  the  ever- 
desperate  role  of  the  defensive.  In  Paris  I  had 
heard,  unbelievingly,  of  a  quid  pro  quo,  demanded 
and  conceded  by  the  French,  as  the  price  of  British 
intervention.  Could  this  strategy  be  in  part  the 
discount  levied?     No!     Yet  but  one  thing  was 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH    37 

sure  —  the  undying  loyalty  and  brave  resolution 
of  those  English,  the  noble  English.  One's  life  is 
worth  less  than  such  a  concrete  vision  of  human- 
kind. 

The  cafe  was  filling  with  refugees.  All  night 
no  one  got  a  wink  of  sleep.  Already  the  hotel 
force  had  disappeared,  and  I  did  not  again  see  the 
great  moustachios  of  the  proprietor.  The  brunt 
of  everything  fell  on  his  scared,  bustling  wife. 
All  night  she  served  coffee  to  arriving,  wilted 
fighters.  Some  lay  trying  to  doze  on  the  padded 
leather  benches,  but  the  plaintive  chatter  of 
mothers  —  the  billiard  table  with  a  mattress  on  it 
was  a  veritable  creche  —  was  less  distracting  in 
volume  than  in  its  subdued  tragicness.  All  night 
the  crash  of  wagons,  the  snort  of  motors,  the 
champ  of  hoofs,  echoed  on  the  cobbles  without. 

Before  daylight  most  of  the  officers  had  gone. 
I  waited  around  as  long  as  I  dared,  resolved,  how- 
ever, at  least  to  give  the  appearance  of  sticking  to 
the  Paris  road.  In  a  barber  shop  next  door  I 
killed  time  by  getting  a  shave  and  a  shampoo. 
There,  everywhere,  the  word  had  passed  that  the 
city  would  be  shelled  that  morning,  and  the  Uh- 
lans In  possession  by  night.  But  the  sight  which 
was  the  reward  of  all  lay  across  the  Somme  canal, 
In  the  Place  du  Hult  Octobre,  by  the  monument  to 
the  defence  of  the  town  against  the  Germans  In 
1870. 


38  FIVE  FRONTS 

Here  was  the  working  heart  of  the  Expedi- 
tionary Force  in  full  blast.  A  modern  army, 
vividly  on  the  job.  Red-capped  staff  officers  ar- 
rived and  dashed  away,  to  report,  to  give  orders, 
clattering  on  great  bay  horses,  surging  in  motors. 
Changing  incessantly  in  person,  grey-haired  gener- 
als, colonels,  aides  —  some  with  gold  eye-glasses, 
all  elegant  —  with  armfuls  of  fluttering  maps, 
shouted  quiet  commands  to  forces  making  off  on 
the  radiating  streets  in  all  directions  toward  the 
country.  Long  lines  of  artillery,  of  ammunition, 
supply  wagons,  endless  cavalry,  seemed  to  march 
and  counter-march  up  and  down  that  hill,  around 
those  sharp  corners,  for  upwards  of  two  hours. 
And  always  the  commissary  'buses,  that  still  blaz- 
oned on  their  sides  in  huge  letters  the  commerce 
of  London,  mingled  with  the  army  of  civilian 
motors,  carts,  carriages,  in  streaming  flight,  among 
the  dumbfounded  population  that  had  no  means  to 
escape. 

I  rode  up  the  hill  to  the  police,  to  get  permission 
to  leave  town  by  bicycle  instead  of  train.  The 
prefect  was  talking  excitedly  under  his  gothic 
arches,  and  waved  me  away  with  a  hand  before  I 
could  open  my  passport.  Coasting  down,  a 
motor-cyclist  buzzed  past,  mouth  open  in  his  un- 
seeing, ashen  face.  Bandaged  troopers,  their 
horses  killed,  limped  along  the  sidewalks  like  men 
walking  in  their  sleep.     Whenever  a  motor-lorry 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     39 

paused,  Its  driver  promptly  fell  Into  a  doze;  all 
the  extra  men  on  the  artillery  and  supply  wagons 
slept  through  the  jolting  over  pavements.  High- 
landers, grimed  with  soil,  stockings  around  their 
ankles,  tartans  gone,  halted  and  scraped  along  their 
weary,  bhstered  feet.  War  —  this  indeed  was 
war  in  all  its  stupefying  desperation. 

At  nine  o'clock  I  took  the  Paris  road,  first  lead- 
ing almost  straight  west  from  St.  Quentin  to  the 
village  of  Ham,  fifteen  miles  beyond.  As  It  hap- 
pened, that  was  the  whole  front  of  this  section  of 
the  English  force,  and  I  rode  completely  along  it, 
ranged  for  battle.  Just  out  of  town  the  Infantry 
was  breaking  camp,  and  the  carcasses  of  their  beef 
ration  lay  everywhere  in  the  road.  To  right  and 
left  of  it,  deployed  cavalry  or  artillery,  making 
for  the  cover  of  groves  or  swells  In  the  flattlsh, 
fertile  country.  And  always  the  surging  back  and 
forth  of  lightning  motors,  of  motor-scouts  — 
though  I  never  again  met  Walker;  the  lumbering 
of  London  'buses,  only  one  of  which  I  saw  wrecked 
on  Its  side.  But  in  places  bread  and  biscuits, 
fragments  of  army  documents,  were  mashed 
and  ground  Into  the  macadam  where  there  had 
been  a  spill.  Between  all,  the  refugees  afoot,  on 
wheels,  the  trundling  baby-carriage  army,  picked 
a  hesitating  way,  I  clinging  closely  to  them  fc^r 
concealment  whenever  the  markings  of  an  officer 
were  visible. 


40  FIVE  FRONTS 

"  I  cawn't  find  those  two  ration  carts,"  drawled 
one  to  another,  as  if  he  had  no  more  than  lost  his 
hat.  "  Men  dead  and  well  out  of  the  game,  I 
fancy." 

I  gave  cigarettes  to  four  Infantrymen,  just  when 
they  were  deciding  that  their  company  had  been 
wiped  out.  They  had  been  looking  for  and  failed 
to  find  it  since  dawn.  "  Better  report  at  'Am  — 
ain't  that  the  place  we've  orders  for?  —  to  the  G 
division."  It  was  a  lowering  day,  beginning  to 
rain,  and  I  stopped  for  bread  and  cheese  In  a  vil- 
lage drinking  place,  midway  to  Ham.  Here  were 
to  be  heard  the  same  stories  as  at  Le  Cateau  after 
the  Mons  fight;  of  the  pathetic,  generous  hospi- 
tality given  by  the  French  peasants;  of  the  awful 
decimations,  always  mentioned  as  though  no  more 
than  the  score  of  a  football  game ;  of  the  Germans' 
poor  rifle  aim,  their  flinching  at  bayonets,  efficient 
and  hidden  artillery,  their  prodigal  advancing  in 
massed  formation  —  eight  deep  usually  —  and 
overpowering  by  sheer  force  of  numbers;  the  as- 
surance of  their  greater  losses;  also  the  revolting 
charges. 

But  in  that  cafe,  even  from  those  privates,  I  got 
the  same  uneasy  glances,  heard  the  same  whispers 
after  I  had  answered  their  questions.  One  fel- 
low, who  had  remarked  heartily :  "  It's  good  to 
hear  your  own  language  In  a  furreign  country,"  ab- 
ruptly grew  silent  at  my  story.     Still,  I  thanked 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH    41 

fortune  that  it  was  the  English  I  had  fallen  in 
with  and  not  the  French.  Their  officers  were  too 
preoccupied  in  a  strange  country  even  to  notice 
fully  an  obvious  alien;  with  the  latter  it  would 
have  been  different,  and  I  should  probably  have 
long  ago  been  brought  to  book.  In  the  narrow 
streets  of  Ham,  jammed  with  supply  trucks,  I 
finally  turned  south,  for  the  twenty  miles  to  No- 
yon.  For  the  first  time,  spaces  of  that  long  road 
were  free  from  the  freight  and  humanity  of  bat- 
tle. Toward  noon,  the  artillery  detonations 
broke  out  behind,  but  they  continued  weak  com- 
pared with  the  thunder  of  yesterday,  and  it  seems 
now  that  I  missed  no  real  battle  yesterday  (Thurs- 
day, the  27).  Hills  appeared  to  the  left,  well  fit 
for  a  defending  army,  and  in  that  direction  was 
La  Fere,  strongly  fortified;  to  the  west  heights 
rose  out  of  the  deepening  valley  of  the  Oise.  I 
rode  through  deserted  towns.  In  one  large  vil- 
lage not  a  soul  but  two  old  women  was  to  be 
seen. 

A  rod  outside  Noyon  was  a  glut  of  troops  and 
transports.  In  the  middle  of  the  road,  surrounded 
by  staff  officers,  and  more  French  than  I  had  yet 
seen,  was  an  elderly  general.  I  should  have 
known  him  as  Sir  John  French,  even  if  the  cavalry- 
man by  whom  I  was  riding  had  not  just  mentioned 
that  to  his  companion.  He  seemed  a  bit  stouter 
than  his  pictures,  but  in  the  glimpse  I  had,  as  I 


42  FIVE  FRONTS 

warily  carried  my  bike  through  a  sugar-beet  patch, 
around  that  headquarters  in  the  field,  he  was 
smihng,  unworn,  unruffled,  to  an  elderly  ally  in 
pale  blue. 

In  Noyon  the  police  commissariat  was  closed. 
I  sought  a  cafe  and  drank  a  grenadine,  after  find- 
ing that  a  train  would  leave  at  five  o'clock.  But 
soon  a  reflection  and  an  incident  sent  me  forward, 
on  the  thirty-mile  run  to  Compiegne.  The  town 
was  too  full  of  French  staff  officers.  I  was  pay- 
ing my  bill,  just  as  a  line  of  wagons  started  back  in 
clattering  retreat  through  the  steep  town.  In  the 
great  forest  of  Compiegne,  I  was  at  last  outside  the 
lines,  though  still  in  the  military  area,  and  for  the 
first  time  breathed  freely.  After  those  scenes  of 
war,  a  great  loneliness  filled  me  in  that  vacant, 
man-sapped  region.  I  stopped  at  a  woodcutter's 
hut  and  drank  cider.  The  man  had  colourless 
hair,  was  probably  consumptive;  his  wife  was 
working  with  nimble  fingers,  binding  bristles  into 
a  white  celluloid  hairbrush.  Fighting  to  them  was 
as  far  away  as  Asia.  Only  outside  Compiegne, 
toward  five,  I  met  a  French  private  awheel,  with 
rifle  over  his  shoulder,  who  said  he  had  been  rid- 
ing since  last  night  from  Namur.  He  asked  me 
into  an  inn  for  dinner,  but  I  wisely  said  I  was  not 
hungry. 

In  Compiegne,  I  got  a  bath  and  dinner  at  the 
Hotel  de  la  Cloche,  which  was  alive  with  Red 


ST.  QUENTIN  AND  AFTERMATH     43 

Cross  nurses.  The  night  train  for  Paris,  bringing 
in  wounded  to  their  steaming  soup-kettles  on  the 
platform,  was  hours  late.  But  on  it  were  two 
English  sergeants,  in  charge  of  the  supply  trains 
from  the  British  base  at  Havre.  Usually  they 
went  there  by  Amiens,  but  now  the  French  had 
blown  up  the  railroad.  And  the  Uhlans  were  in 
St.  Quentin  —  of  course.  I  should  have  been,  had 
I  not  been  arrested,  and  bought  that  $38  wheel. 

We  rode  in  a  freight  car,  filled  with  young 
French  volunteers  under  age,  who  never  ceased  to 
sing  in  their  enthusiasm : 

C'est  Guillaum-e,  c'est  Guillaum-e, 
C'est  Guillaume  que  nous  combattrons  — 
Ah-h-h!  .  .  .  O-Ou! 

I  reached  the  Care  du  Nord  at  two  o'clock  this 
morning. 


IV 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  — BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 

Paris,  September  i6,  19 14. —  Penetrating  the 
Allies'  lines  during  the  recent  and  pivotal  battle 
of  the  Marne  proved  a  far  harder  and  less  suc- 
cessful venture  than  mingling  with  the  British 
forces  in  the  desperate  days  of  the  battle  of  Cam- 
brai.  Again  chance  threw  me  among  them 
rather  than  the  French,  to  find  their  spirit  in  vic- 
tory at  the  staff  headquarters  in  Coulommiers  no 
less  calm  and  generous  than  it  had  been  in  the 
tragic  retreat  upon  St.  Quentin. 

I  failed  to  reach  the  firing-line ;  yet  travelled  that 
section  furthest  within  France  which  the  Germans 
have  swept,  where,  in  villages  burned  by  their 
cavalry,  towns  looted,  the  meaning  of  war  to  the 
stoic  French  peasant  was  written  enragingly  large. 
This  time  arrest  came  from  the  military  rather 
than  the  civil  authorities  —  that  arrest  which 
seems  to  be  the  normal  state  of  reporters  who 
would  follow  this  war  into  the  forbidden  "  zone  of 
the  armies  ";  and  I  have  just  returned  from  a  five- 
day  sentence,  whose  quaintness  only  the  ingenious 
Latin  mind  could  have  designed. 

For  reporters  to  write  of  themselves  heretofore 
44 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  45 

has  been  in  bad  taste  and  vain;  but  in  this  conflict 
which  seems  to  mark  their  end  on  the  battlefield, 
some  note  of  their  dilemmas,  if  only  for  a  touch 
of  relieving  comedy,  can  be  justified.  "  The  story 
of  this  war  can't  be  written  for  two  or  three 
years,"  said  a  captain  of  Cameron  Highlanders 
to  me  in  his  mess  in  the  Hotel  Porcepic,  Coulom- 
miers;  adding  grimly,  "And  then  no  one  who 
could  write  it  may  be  alive." 

For  example,  in  order  for  us  to  reach  the 
"front"  last  Wednesday  (September  9)  at  the 
height  of  the  Marne  battle,  a  ruse  was  imperative. 
No  trains  were  running  eastward;  a  motor-car 
was  necessary,  for  which  you  must  have  permis- 
sion from  the  police  to  leave  the  city,  stating  your 
destination.  Of  course,  none  would  be  given  for 
the  desired  direction,  or  for  any  point,  without  a 
serious  excuse.  We  decided  on  a  doctor's  certifi- 
cate, which  finally  was  furnished  by  a  sly-eyed  old 
medico  with  a  taste  for  the  drama  of  intrigue 
(Heaven  help  his  ilk  with  our  County  Medical 
Society!)  in  the  southern  purlieus  of  Paris. 

I  suffered  from  angina  pectoris,  and  with  a 
nurse  and  doctor  must  go  to  a  southern  climate. 
Nice  was  stated;  and  when  the  next  morning  we 
passed  out  of  the  Vincennes  Gate,  among  trenches, 
barricades,  prone  trees  with  all  their  branches 
whittled  sharp  —  our  chauffeur  held  under  a 
thumb  on  his  steering-wheel  the  yellow  police  pass 


46  FIVE  FRONTS 

granting  a  fairway,  but  to  the  south.  The  plan 
was  to  ride  thither  as  far  as  Melun,  which  a  stray 
French  bicycle  scout  on  the  boulevards  had  said 
the  Allies  had  evacuated  on  Saturday;  then,  hiding 
our  maps  under  the  seats,  turn  north  and  east  to- 
wards La  Ferte-sous-Jouarre,  with  the  story  that 
the  military  had  checked  our  route,  or  we  had  lost 
our  way,  if  any  of  the  red-trousered  sentries  at 
every  bridge  or  railway  crossing  disputed  us. 

At  first  the  plan  worked  perfectly.  Barred 
from  entering  the  forest  of  VIncennes,  we  passed 
through  Corbeil,  which,  because  of  its  great  flour 
mills,  had  been  a  German  objective;  then  Melun, 
which  showed  no  sign  either  of  desertion  or  of  oc- 
cupation by  the  enemy.  At  last,  taking  a  straight 
road  northeast  between  tall  flanking  poplars, 
across  the  fenceless,  deserted  landscape  of  lucerne 
and  buckwheat,  we  struck  the  path  of  the  sword. 

In  the  car  we  were  abolishing  militarism,  con- 
ceiving a  post-bellum  millennium  of  working-folk 
and  paupered  money-lenders,  when  one  of  us  ex- 
claimed, pointing — "German  shell!"  Two 
round  holes  pierced  the  high  garden  wall  of  a 
house  in  that  fleeting  village ;  and  not  till  when  well 
past  did  we  realise  that  on  neither  curb  nor  door- 
step was  to  be  seen  a  single  human  being.  Then 
down  a  hill,  by  the  green  circus  tents  of  hangars, 
with  a  Bleriot  roosting  in  a  wheatfield,  we  entered 
burned  Courtegan. 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  47 

A  dead  bay  horse  by  the  roadside,  his  legs  un- 
naturally elevated;  the  stifling  tang  of  burnt  hay, 
met  us.  Of  that  hamlet  little  stood  except  high- 
gabled  walls  of  grey  stone,  around  the  charred 
wreck  of  homes.  The  Uhlans  had  fired  even  the 
barns,  to  destroy  the  crops  and  fodder,  of  folk 
whom  nothing  but  a  geographic  line,  the  mill- 
stone of  history,  and  a  military  caste  separated 
them  from  as  brothers.  Gleams  of  flame  still 
showed  in  the  feathery  embers.  A  crowd  of  peas- 
ant women  —  not  a  man  among  them  —  sur- 
rounded and  stopped  our  car. 

They  wore  men's  broad-brimmed  straw  hats, 
and  their  eyes  were  red  from  lack  of  sleep  and 
weeping.  Hardly  one  could  have  been  under 
sixty.  They  kept  their  hands  moving  furtively 
under  their  worn  cotton  aprons,  and  talked  all  to- 
gether in  pitiful  ejaculations,  as  though  having  lost 
the  power  of  coherent  speech.  They  described 
the  grey  horsemen  galloping  to  their  doors,  rifling 
and  firing  within,  dragging  them  outside,  slaught- 
ering their  cattle,  passing  on,  that  Lord's  day,  in 
the  smoke  and  flame. 

They  kept  reverting  to  this  inhumanity :  A  son 
of  the  village,  about  twenty  years  old,  had  been  led 
into  a  field  with  hands  tied,  and  shot. 

"  Why?  "  we  demanded. 

"  He  had  nineteen  years,"  one  answered.  "  He 
must  soon  be  in  the  army.     They  would  not  want 


48  FIVE  FRONTS 

that."  It  was  not  hard  to  tell  which  peasant  was 
his  mother.  Behind  the  group  a  poor  creature 
sobbed  continually. 

Where  were  the  other  young  men,  the  girls  es- 
pecially? "They  will  return,"  we  were  told, 
*'  with  the  children.  Things  are  better  now." 
Here  was  the  last  chaper  of  the  story  that  I  had 
seen  in  the  Nord,  at  Le  Cateau  and  Busigny. 
Here,  too,  trudging  behind  little  carts,  the  children 
carrying  their  pets,  the  parents  with  their  all 
jammed  Into  pillow-slips,  had  taken  place  that 
same  exodus.  They  would  return,  yes,  but  to 
what,  what  ecstatic  a  salvation!  An  old  man 
across  the  road  was  hammering  at  the  iron  tire  of 
a  wagon-wheel.  His  house  and  barn  and  horse 
were  burned,  but  he  still  had  the  vehicle.  And  as 
we  sped  on  toward  the  larger  town  of  Rozoy,  fires 
set  around  dead  horses,  dozens  of  which  lay  along 
the  ditches  as  if  struck  down  by  pestilence,  were 
burning,  tended  by  old  men  in  all  the  fields.  But 
of  the  human  graves  there  was  no  sign. 

At  Rozoy  began  the  touch  of  comedy  that  was 
to  relieve  the  horrors  of  our  coming  sentence. 
One  must  remember  that  in  this  unspeakable  war 
on  France,  fought  as  if  in  a  well-groomed  park, 
in  a  land  and  by  peoples  which  still  wear  badges  of 
mediaevalism  amazing  to  Americans,  the  grim  and 
the  grotesque  are  sure  to  mingle.     We  were  sit- 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  49 

ting  at  dejeuner  in  an  Inn,  when  there  entered  first 
a  bronzed  British  captain  with  a  small  moustache, 
then  a  red-capped  staff-officer,  a  Sir  Someone  Cun- 
ningham, it  soon  seemed.  Next,  the  doorway 
filled  magnificently  with  a  civilian.  His  white 
goatee  and  moustache  a  la  mousquetaire  at  once 
conjured  Louis  Napoleon.  Yet  he  was  English 
—  of  the  English.  With  a  finger  on  his  eye- 
glasses, he  glared  at  us,  to  announce : 

"  I  am  the  Times  correspondent,  and  will  be 
shot  at  sunrise.  But  as  for  that  frog-faced 
blighter — "  he  shook  a  finger  at  the  captain,  who 
grinned  back  deliciously  " — death  cannot  settle 
my  score  with  you."  He  sank  into  a  chair,  dra- 
matically quoting,  "  Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  un- 
sung," and  demanded  white  wine  with  his  lunch- 
eon. 

There  followed  him  the  Daily  Mail,  In  the  per- 
son of  a  slim,  whimsical  young  man  who  smelt  of 
brilliantine ;  and  the  Mirror,  as  a  fresh  faced  ex- 
artillery  officer  with  a  gift  for  telling  stories  in  the 
Lancashire  dialect.  Their  automobile  comman- 
deered, arrested  the  night  before  for  emerging 
from  behind  a  haystack  and  answering  in  English 
the  bad  French  of  some  staff  officers  of  the  Sec- 
ond Army  who  had  lost  their  way,  they  had 
since  been  white  elephants  on  the  hands 
of  the  captain,  who,  because  general  headquarters 


50  FIVE  FRONTS 

was  now  moving  from  Melun  to  Coulommiers, 
was  endeavouring  to  get  them  there  in  a  hired 
machine. 

iWe  made  friends.  The  two  officers,  with  the 
tact  of  all  military  men  who  have  no  specific 
orders  about  you,  refrained  from  questioning  us. 
But  the  prisoners  foretold  our  gloomy  fate  if 
"caught";  while  Sir  Cunningham,  complaining 
that  yesterday's  cannonading  had  made  him  deaf, 
listened  with  a  hand  behind  one  ear,  and  the  look 
of  a  cat  that  has  swallowed  a  canary.  We  talked 
of  Eastern  wars,  of  political  crises  in  Teheran, 
Vienna.  There  was  not  a  statesman  in  the  world 
whose  most  intimate  friend  Mr.  Times  commis- 
sioner had  not  been ;  not  a  "  war  correspondent  "  in 
the  days  when  they  existed  whom  he  had  not  fol- 
lowed to  the  grave;  not  a  general  in  the  French 
army  who  had  not  entertained  him  at  dinner. 
And  at  moments  he  would  lapse  into  the  mutter 
— "  Parliament  shall  hear  of  this.  A  question  will 
be  asked  next  Monday.  Yes,  we  are  travelling  in 
a  Black  Maria,  or,  by  the  French  idiom,  a  '  salad 
basket.'  " 

Thus,  until  there  breezed  in  a  jaunty  being 
whose  simple  aspect  completely  stole  his  fire;  a 
pink  young  lieutenant  of  Scotch  Horse,  Baron 
Russell,  by  name,  of  the  Intelligence  Department, 
an  exact  replica  in  dress,  even  to  the  eyeglass,  of 
a  certain  Scotch  comedian.     He  began  by  airily 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  51 

telling  us  of  four  chums  of  his  who  had  all  been 
killed  along  the  Marne  that  morning,  and  when 
we  exchanged  cards  and  left  town  unchallenged  in 
our  car,  declared  that  when  I  saw  him  after  the 
war  at  his  club  in  Piccadilly  he  would  have  the  Vic- 
toria Cross.     Positively  no  doubt  about  it. 

All  this,  understand,  I  detail  with  a  purpose, 
quite  aware  of  how  on  the  edge  of  the  most  wanton 
carnage  in  history  it  may  sound  trivial.  But  if 
telling  the  truth  about  war  will  end  it,  It  must  be 
the  complete  truth;  and  here  and  to  come  was  the 
spirit  of  the  English  winning,  on  the  rebound  from 
their  martyrdom  at  St.  Quentin,  as  I  have  written. 
That  afternoon  we  tried  by  devious  roads  to  reach 
La  Ferte,  being  finally  stopped  by  an  endless 
French  supply  train  headed  there,  to  pass  which 
meant  sure  arrest.  So  we  headed  north,  and  ran 
into  the  first  British  outpost  on  a  side  road  near 
La  Haute  Maison,  five  miles  from  the  firing  line. 
The  usual  lorries  and  London  motor-'buses  lined 
the  way,  and  the  Irish  sergeant,  who  sent  for  the 
lieutenant  who  "  advised  "  us  to  retreat  to  Crecy, 
declared  he  had  been  born  in  Boston.  I  had  re- 
marked it  in  the  Nord,  how  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Atkins 
always  brightened,  and  he  often  informed  you  that 
he  was  going  to  New  York  "  after  the  war  is 
over,"  when  shown  an  American  passport.  But 
coincidence  began  to  grow  uncanny.  Two  bicycle 
scouts  hove  to,  one  who  averred  he  had  been  raised 


52  FIVE  FRONTS 

in   Portland,    Oregon,    and   the   other   in   Ohio. 

Yet  Crecy  received  us  without  suspicion.  We 
sent  the  car  back  to  Paris,  one  of  our  trio  still  in 
it,  while  Reed  and  I  resolved  to  try  our  luck  on 
foot  in  the  morning.  It  was  not  the  Crecy  of  Ed- 
ward III,  but  one  Tommy  of  an  ammunition  train 
camped  in  front  of  the  mairie  made  a  remark  that 
should  be  as  memorable  as  Edward's  message  to 
the  Black  Prince.  In  the  crowd  of  them  that  sur- 
rounded us,  offering  a  hidden  berth  in  a  lorrie  for 
the  front  at  daylight  —  detailing  the  incessant 
tale  of  German  brutalities,  of  a  German  cavalry 
force  cut  off  and  surrounded  in  a  wood  by  the 
Marne,  where  they  had  blown  up  a  bridge  before 
the  whole  column  had  passed  it  —  one  Atkins, 
calling  to  another,  summed  his  history  of  the  war 
with: 

"  And  the  Rooshians'll  be  in  Berlin  next  week." 

"  Berlin?  'Ow  can  they?  "  retorted  a  corporal. 
"  I  tell  you  they  'aven't  crossed  the  Pyrenees  yet." 

"  Well,  if  they've  got  it  as  smooth  as  we  'ave 
now,"  put  in  a  third,  "  that  won't  stop  them.  Bet- 
ter than  a  20-guinea  Cook's  tour,  this  war  is  for 
our  fellers  here." 

A  French  woman  in  black,  however,  with  a  hat 
of  the  boulevards,  who  stopped  to  inquire  of  us 
where  the  absent  mayor  was,  did  not  share  their 
opinion  of  the  town.  She  had  come  out  to  see  a 
son  at  the  front,  been  assured  of  his  safety,  and 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  53 

wanted  Paris  again,   quickly,   train  or  no  train. 

"  This  place  —  this  place,"  she  raised  her  shoul- 
ders. "  Life  does  not  exist  here.  Even  in  time 
of  peace  it  Is  400  kilometres  from  anywhere. 
Even  the  Prussians  have  not  bothered  to  pass  It 
through."  True  enough;  perhaps  it  was  she  who 
had  scared  the  mayor  away.  At  any  rate,  he  had 
fled,  and  he  seemed  to  be  In  general  demand  that 
evening.  But  our  estimate  of  his  courage  was 
rather  replaced  by  respect  for  other  attainments, 
as  implied  by  his  next  caller.  A  youth  with  stoop- 
ing shoulders  could  not  be  denied  him.  In  a 
house  across  the  bridge  over  the  Grand  Morin,  an 
addition  to  the  population  of  Crecy  was  imminent. 
Who  ever  said  that  there  is  no  hope  for  France? 

In  his  Honour's  absence,  the  sauf-condult  we 
wanted  to  the  front,  then  near  Pierre-levee,  had  to 
be  secured  from  the  Police  Commissariat  —  a  civil 
document,  strictly  valueless,  as  we  knew,  within  the 
lines,  though  It  might  work  with  French  sentries. 
And  It  was  no  fault  of  that  personage,  the  good 
Monsieur  Chargot,  that  we  did  not  get  there. 
Never,  except  in  musical  comedy,  have  I  met  his 
like,  from  the  medals  and  gilt  and  silver  braid  that 
covered  his  chest  and  limbs  to  the  dramatic  fer- 
vour with  which  he  scanned  our  papers,  slapped  us 
each  on  the  back,  and  stamped  the  documents  we 
needed  In  his  office.  He  must  see  us  to  our  hotel. 
We  must  guess  his  age.     We  had  to  admire  how 


54  FIVE  FRONTS 

strong  he  was,  feel  his  arms,  which  were  pipe- 
stems  ;  hear  the  gaunt  hero  of  '70  boast,  "  I  am  the 
strongest  man  in  France ;  I  am  her  champion  atli- 
lete  at  fencing,  the  golf,  yes,  and  the  football." 

You  see,  the  marauders  had  withdrawn;  chil- 
dren were  being  born ;  every  wind  was  favourable. 

At  dinner  in  the  inn,  as  a  crew  of  Tommies  en- 
tertained their  officers  at  the  piano  with  the 
"  Marseillaise  "  and  "  God  Save  the  King,"  not  a 
devious  word  or  look  was  directed  at  us.  A  tall 
lieutenant  observed,  "  If  you  want  to  catch  a 
Uhlan,  they're  so  hungry,  just  go  into  the  woods 
north  of  here  and  hold  out  a  biscuit." 

It  wasn't  until  three  English  newspaper  photog- 
raphers reached  Crecy  well  after  dark  that  the  luck 
shifted.  Two  reporters  M.  Chargot  might  abide, 
but  three  more  than  that  roused  in  him  all  the  spy- 
madness  of  the  French  peasant.  He  clamoured 
into  the  dining-room  for  Reed  and  me  to  vouch  for 
and  identify  the  intruders.  Naturally  we  could 
not.  "  They  look  like  Germans,"  declared  the 
commissary.  And  out  in  the  courtyard,  where 
they  were  dining  by  a  single  candle  under  a  mag- 
nolia, their  spectacled,  sallow  faces  bore  him  out. 
Moreover,  a  certain  Captain  Greave,  of  the  sup- 
ply train,  who  had  been  jolly  enough  at  dinner, 
stole  out  into  the  dark  garden  to  get  a  line  on 
them.     They  talked  "  at  "  him  with  most  convinc- 


THE  TURNING  TIDE  55 

Ing,  tactless  arguments  on  the  idle  persecution  of 
reporters,  which  only  ended  by  the  Captain's  lump- 
ing us  all  five  together,  and  his  threat  that  we  had 
better  make  ourselves  scarce  in  the  morning  or 
take  consequences.  The  clear  implication  was 
that  he  would  notify  the  staff  about  us. 

All  night  the  tortuous  cobbles  of  Crecy  clattered 
under  horsemen  and  lorries.  In  a  lull  toward 
dawn  an  officer  pounded  on  the  hotel  door,  and 
after  a  dialogue  in  execrable  French  with  some 
sleepy  lady,  aroused  officers  in  the  room  below  us. 
"  Complete  defeat!  "  he  shouted  up  to  their  win- 
dow dramatically  in  the  ashen  stillness.  That,  we 
learned  after  breakfast,  was  of  the  force  sur- 
rounded in  the  wood  that  we  had  heard  of,  where 
1,500  prisoners  and  12  guns  were  taken.  And 
the  British  van  had  crossed  the  Marne  at  five 
o'clock  that  morning. 

We  consulted.  Afoot,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  catch  the  front;  indeed,  in  this  war,  one's  only 
way  to  see  fighting  is  to  have  retreating  lines  close 
around  you,  as  had  happened  at  Le  Cateau.  We 
flipped  a  coin;  heads  for  Pierre-levee,  tails  for 
Coulommiers,  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  state 
our  case  and  wishes  frankly  to  the  staff,  and  chance 
their  indulgence.  Tails  fell  twice,  and  we  climbed 
into  the  motor  of  the  two  lieutenants  who  had 
been  so  friendly  at  dinner,  and  burned  the  twelve 


S6  FIVE  FRONTS 

odoriferous  kilometres  —  battlefield  details  un- 
necessary —  toward  the  headquarters  town,  which 
gives  its  name  to  a  superior  brand  of  cheese,  and 
the  Grand  Morin  bisects  with  arched  bridges,  old 
balconied  houses  and  weeping  willows. 


V 

COMEDY  AT  THE  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS 

The  Prussians  had  been  there,  looting  but  not 
burning.  Every  unshuttered  door  and  window 
was  smashed,  chalked  with  the  invariable  legend 
—  why  was  a  mystery  — "  Eintritt  verboten." 
Khakied  Tommies,  bare-kneed  Scotsmen  boiling 
hams  over  campfires,  lordlings  dozing  in  huge 
grey  cars,  motorcycles  cutting  corners,  "  Red 
Caps"  (staff  officers)  gesticulating  at  French  in- 
terpreters with  the  costumes  and  paunches  of 
chorusmen,  swarmed  in  the  streets,  in  the  square 
between  the  Municipal  Theatre  and  the  Hotel  de 
Ville.  As  we  sought  the  Provost  Marshal  in  the 
latter,  there  loomed  up  Louis  Napoleon  (he  of 
the  Times),  at  the  instant  of  oracularly  confiding 
to  some  titled  major — "Yes,  I  had  a  rawther 
high  opinion  of  the  Kaiser,  until  lately." 

The  Provost  Marshal  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Bunbury,  an  old  colonel  with  a  kindly,  indefinite 
eye  and  very  long  cheeks  where  the  bones  pro- 
truded in  their  exact  centre.  He  seemed  to  ex- 
pect us,  waved  aside  any  verbal  plea  with  the  re- 
quest that  we  explain  our  purposes  and  presence 
in  writing  at  once.     I  commandeered  a  typewriter 

57 


58  FIVE  FRONTS 

in  the  back  of  his  office,  and  wrote  on  a  jury-box 
sort  of  bench,  for  the  room  had  been  the  court  of 
the  justice  of  the  peace.  Immediately  he  put  us 
under  parole. 

"  Are  we  arrested?  "  we  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  grinned  he.  "  But  you  must  give 
me  your  word  not  to  leave  Coulommiers."  Our 
denial  that  we  had  ever  seen  an  official  statement 
barring  reporters  from  the  lines  mildly  piqued 
him. 

"  What'll  we  get?  "  we  asked.  "  Two  years  in 
a  French  fortress?  "  That  had  been  the  expected 
verdict  of  our  confreres  at  Rozoy. 

*'  Perhaps."  And  he  referred  us  upstairs,  in 
that  chilly  pile,  wired  with  the  rubber  conduits  of 
a  field  electric-lighting  kit,  to  a  Major  Kirke,  of 
the  Intelligence  Department.  After  another 
hour's  wait,  we  found  him  more  sympathetic  and 
no  less  confiding  —  a  fellow  with  a  blue  eye  and 
small  red  moustache. 

"  We  have  sent  to  Paris  to  settle  your  case," 
said  he.  "  In  the  meantime,  you  have  permission 
to  draw  rations  to-day  —  and  to-morrow,  prob- 
ably." 

At  any  rate,  life  for  twenty-four  hours  in  Cou- 
lommiers still  lay  before  us.  Arrested?  Oh, 
dear  no !  And  since,  I  have  found  nothing  to  re- 
gret in  that  time.  Strange  as  it  may  sound,  we  had 
not  the  least  resentment  against  our  hosts,  while 


COMEDY  AT  HEADQUARTERS     59 

they,  once  the  machine  of  discipline  was  cranked, 
all  treated  us  with  that  friendly,  casual  candour  in 
which  the  Briton  of  caste  is  natural  master.  How 
could  one  grudge  freedom  to  talk  and  wander  at 
will  in  the  heart  and  flower  of  the  British  army, 
winning  now,  on  the  offensive  —  not  crushed,  deci- 
mated but  still  blindly  valiant,  as  I  had  seen  it  in 
the  valley  of  the  Oise  ? 

A  time,  indeed,  of  extraordinary  revelations. 
Whole  divisions  might  be  enfiladed,  but  that 
seemed  nothing  to  the  tragedy  that  nowhere  in 
Coulommlers  could  a  fellow  get  four  o'clock  tea. 
Tommy,  whom  we  gathered  had  a  special  fleet  of 
lorries  to  supply  him  with  the  leaf,  was  inclined  to 
worry  more  about  them  than  the  range  of  shrap- 
nel. Monocles  over  khaki;  "I  say,  Sir  Lionel," 
and,  "  Oh,  Westminster,"  were  thick  in  that 
square  and  City  Hall.  A  private  party  —  no 
other  word  fits  —  who  resembled  a  white  hope  In 
a  skirt,  was  tacking  a  label  on  a  box:  "To  be 
called  for  by  Lord  Locke."  But  the  amazing 
thing  was  the  lack  of  formality  between  men  and 
officers,  of  the  chill  and  cringing  In  what  one  im- 
agines Is  discipline.  It  existed,  rigid,  and  efficient, 
else  the  pervading  air  of  smoothness  could  not 
have  been.  Officers  consulted  their  men  casually 
in  giving  orders,  and  the  men  would  accost  them 
with  no  more  than  a  dab  of  the  hand  at  a  cap. 
Visible  discipline  is  sometimes  held  to  be  mild  in 


6o  FIVE  FRONTS 

our  American  navy;  but  these  Lords  and  cockneys 
saving  Europe  —  perhaps  all  liberty  —  were  just 
one  cheerful,  hard-working  family,  making  the 
best  of  their  job,  far  more  informally  than  our 
fleet  does  at  target-practice.  Social  caste  there 
may  be  in  England,  but  England  in  the  field  is 
without  the  first  taint  of  militarism.  You  see  at 
the  top  notch,  sweeping  all  else  aside,  the  race's 
genius  for  administration  that  has  made  its  great 
history. 

And  from  Tommy  in  the  cafes,  sighing  for  ciga- 
rettes which  the  enemy  had  swept  clean  away; 
from  MacGregor,  chucking  biscuits  to  girls  wash- 
ing clothes  in  the  river  and  giggling  at  his  naked 
knees  —  you  could  not  get  one  word  of  venom 
against  the  Teuton.  "  The  blarsted  simpleton," 
said  one,  of  a  prisoner  he  had  taken,  "  just  lay  on 
his  back  in  the  motor,  playing  a  mouth-organ, 
'appy  as  a  king." 

"Expect  their  rifles  to  'it  us?"  said  another, 
who  produced  a  kitten  which  he  had  carried  all  the 
way  from  Belgium  tucked  in  his  coat.  "  'Ow  can 
they,  when  they  fire  'em  from  down  by  their  knees 
—  just  like  that?" 

Always  I  kept  eyes  peeled  for  curly  sorrel  hair, 
for  Walker,  my  bike  scout  of  the  Le  Cateau  bat- 
tle. And  once  from  the  Grand  Morin  bridge  I 
sighted  him,  scooting  around  a  corner,  but  out  of 


COMEDY  AT  HEADQUARTERS     6i 

hail.  Yet,  alive  still!  If  plain  cats  have  nine 
lives,  Cheshires  have  ninety. 

The  blithe  Baron  Russell  —  he  of  the  certain  V. 
C. —  took  me  inspecting  his  mounts,  and  on  the 
way  rather  scotched  one's  faith  in  half  the  tales 
you  hear  of  brutalities.  One  story  told  here  and 
at  Crecy,  by  men  and  ojfficers  alike,  always  con- 
sistent in  detail,  even  to  names  and  places,  con- 
cerned a  bicycle  scout.  Of  three  captured  by 
Uhlans,  two  escaped  and  hid  in  a  barn.  They  saw 
their  comrade  shot  twice,  bayonetted  in  the  face, 
his  body,  while  still  alive,  soaked  with  gasolene 
from  the  machine,  and  both  thrown  into  a  haystack 
which  had  been  set  afire.  Yes,  Russell  had  heard 
that;  he  was  in  the  Intelligence  Department,  to 
which  the  bike  scouts  belonged,  and  he  had  investi- 
gated, thoroughly,  to  this  effect :  Not  one  motor- 
scout  was  missing,  and  none  of  the  names  men- 
tioned had  ever  belonged  to  the  squad ! 

"  But  I  mustn't  tell  you  all  this,  or  be  seen  talk- 
ing to  you.  If  they  think  you're  a  spy,  what'll 
they'll  think  of  me,  eh?"  and  he  screwed  in  his 
eyeglass.  "  Silly  work  mine.  Translating  pris- 
oners' letters  all  day.  What  do  you  think? 
Why,  each  mother's  son  of  them  says,  '  By  the 
time  you  get  this,  we'll  be  in  Paris.'  .  .  .  Hello. 
Look  at  them.     Firing  squad." 

We  were  back  in  the  square.     Four  men  shoul- 


62  FIVE  FRONTS 

dering  rifles  were  leading  off  down  the  street  two 
young  soldiers  with  heads  forward.  They  stum- 
bled, shuffled,  but  not  an  eye  in  the  throngs  seemed 
aware  of  them.  I  was  glad,  as  they  vanished  over 
the  bridge,  that  I  had  not  seen  their  faces. 

"What  for?"  I  asked. 

"  Looting.  Two  this  morning,  too,  and  for 
rape.  But  we  were  speaking  of  spies.  You  said 
you  were  at  Cateau?  Well,  we  never  catch  'em 
in  time.  They  hang  around  headquarters.  Re- 
member the  church  there?  One  was  flying  car- 
rier pigeons  from  the  dome  of  it  after  we  left,  giv- 
ing away  our  position." 

At  night  it  was  the  same  in  the  Hotel  Pore- 
epic;  whither  peasants  with  eggs  and  veal  from  the 
country  were  daring  to  return;  whither  cavalry 
captains  from  the  front,  scouts  who  had  not  eaten 
for  two  days,  dropped  in  for  food,  sleep,  and  the 
wine  of  the  country,  served  by  the  fair  Alice. 
Tales  of  strategy,  carnage,  heroism,  in  all  the  long 
fight  from  Mons  —  to  date  maybe  the  most  heroic 
in  history  —  you  had  for  the  asking;  but  not  one 
that  carried  a  syllable  of  drama,  of  fervour,  of 
hate  or  pity,  in  those  quiet  islanders'  voices.  It 
may  sound  impossible;  it  may  not  seem  human,  in 
the  abhorred  name  of  this  war  as  a  distant  world 
views  it  —  but  it  is  the  truth.  It  does  justice  to 
the  professional  soldier,  in  defence  of  the  world. 

We  were  told  our  fate  in  the  morning.     At 


COMEDY  AT  HEADQUARTERS     63 

turnlng-in  the  night  before,  "  Louis  "  of  the  Times 
had  drawn  me  mysteriously  aside.  Whether  it 
was  the  white  wine,  or  because  our  captors  on  their 
receipt  for  his  commandeered  car  had  cut  200 
sovereigns  from  his  valuation,  he  had  whispered: 
"  I  have  it  direct  through  General  Smith-Dor- 
rien  " —  or  words  to  such  effect  — "  whom  I 
brought  up  from  a  boy,  in  Egypt.  Don't  —  don't 
tell  the  youngsters."  (He  meant  the  whimsical 
Daily  Mail  man,  and  the  ex-soldier  of  the  Mir- 
ror.) He  gave  me  his  wife's  address  in  England. 
"  You,  as  Americans,"  he  ended,  feelingly,  "  may 
fare  better.  But  already,  as  organiser  of  the 
Times  forces  in  this  war,  I  have  been  criticised  on 
the  floor  of  the  House.  fVe  shall  get  three  years 
in  the  Cherche-Midi." 

It  turned  out  to  be  not  quite  so  bad  as  that; 
only  exile  to  the  south.  In  the  morning,  rumour 
first  had  it  that  a  two-horse  rig  was  at  our  disposal, 
in  which  we  were  to  start  on  a  gipsy  tour,  telling 
fortunes  and  weaving  baskets  as  far  as  the  repub- 
lic of  Andorra.  But  toward  noon,  Colonel  Bun- 
bury  of  the  cheek-bones  turned  us  over  to  the  Na- 
tional Gendarmerie.  A  sallow  army  lieutenant 
with  a  hooked  nose  who  received  us  found  pleas- 
ure in  executing  a  pantomime  of  guillotining  at  our 
expense.  Inside  the  brigade  building  the  com- 
mandant, in  riding  breeches  —  he  was  too  fat  even 
to  have  sat  a  farm  Percheron  —  made  out  for  each 


64  FIVE  FRONTS 

of  us  a  dossier,  which  stated  among  other  things : 
"  He  is  not  dangerous,  .  .  .  will  proceed  from 
brigade  to  brigade  as  far  as  Tours,  where  he  will 
be  released." 

"  How  many  of  your  brigade  stations,"  we 
asked,  "  are  there  between  here  and  Tours?  " 

With  a  chuckle  the  fellow  held  up  fifteen  fingers. 
"  It  will  take  you  about  a  week,"  he  said,  and  pro- 
ceeded, with  the  pose  of  a  pen-and-ink  artist,  to 
enliven  each  dossier  in  turn  with  a  description  of 
his  victim.  They  lose  piquancy  in  translation, 
especially  "  Louis's  "  moustache  mousquetaire;  the 
Daily  Mail  man's^  which  was  naissante  and  his 
nose  cave;  also  Reed's  front  placide,  and  my 
menton  proeminent.     Can  you  beat  it  all? 

A  train  of  German  wounded  and  prisoners, 
which  steamed  into  the  railroad  station  in  a  cloud 
of  iodoform,  started  us  south,  chaperoned  by  two 
gendarmes,  that  afternoon;  and  our  last  glimpse 
of  Coulommiers,  in  the  heart  of  the  cheese  coun- 
try, was  a  perfect  symbol  of  the  Briton  in  France: 
a  Highlander  with  a  loaf  of  bread  like  a  baseball 
bat  under  his  arm  on  the  vain  search  for  a  tea- 
room. The  prisoners,  with  a  "  pantalon  rouge  " 
and  bayonet  at  the  door  of  each  horse  van,  we 
were  not  allowed  to  talk  to;  but  their  queer  grey 
uniforms,  square  Teuton  heads,  month's  beards, 
and  the  cowed  resignation  of  their  dull  blue  eyes 
were  eloquent  enough. 


COMEDY  AT  HEADQUARTERS     65 

As  a  fact,  before  reaching  Tours,  we  reported 
at  but  three  brigades.  In  Gretz  that  night,  which 
we  reached  on  the  straw  and  manure  of  a  cattle 
car,  we  were  greeted  in  the  deserted  streets  by  the 
shout,  "  Marie,  des  fous!  "  from  two  girls  behind 
a  hedge.  From  a  filthy  inn  under  the  walls  of 
Baron  Rothschild's  chateau,  our  next  sentries  took 
us  to  Champigny  in  that  noble's  luggage  truck 
—  a  veritable  salad  basket  in  the  eyes  of  all  the 
countryside,  and  of  the  French  soldiers  at  each 
barricade  along  the  road.  The  Champigny  gen- 
tlemen, using  us  as  an  excuse  to  see  the  sights 
of  Paris,  just  relieved  from  its  desperate  resigna- 
tion, took  us  straight  to  the  capital;  and  we  had 
the  thrill  of  dashing  through  the  gates  of  the  In- 
valides  in  two  taxis,  to  the  joy  of  an  officer  from 
our  cruiser  Tennessee^  who  knew  me  too  well,  and 
was  strolling  by. 

An  official  of  the  military  government  of  the 
capital  parolled  us  to  take  the  train  to  Tours  next 
day.  He  remarked  that  the  cathedral  there  is  a 
masterpiece  of  the  Renaissance.  We  found  it 
quite  so. 


PART  II 
WITH  THE  AUSTRIANS  IN  GALICIA 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS 

Neu  Sandec,  Gallcia  (Austrian  Poland), 
October  i8. —  The  Imperial  Austrian  colours  are 
yellow  and  black,  and  I  wear  a  brassard  of  them, 
exactly  like  a  Princeton  hat-band,  around  my  left 
arm.  This,  at  least,  is  something  in  such  a  press- 
forbidden  war;  and  it  is  a  bit  more,  perhaps,  to  be 
the  only  English-speaking  person  with  the  Aus- 
trian Army  yet  arrayed  so,  and  have  the  promise 
of  seeing  on  the  firing-line  what  is  the  matter  with 
the  famous  Russian  "  steam-roller  "  of  which  one 
read  so  much  last  month  in  Paris.  It  seems  stuck 
the  other  side  of  nearby,  unpronounceable  Przem- 
ysl. 

To  attain  this  in  Vienna  was  a  matter  of  carry- 
ing letters  from  one  official  "  hochwohlgeboren  " 
to  another.  Incidentally,  in  that  city  no  one  was 
eating  animals  from  the  zoo,  one  heller  bought 
just  as  much  beer  as  ever,  the  Cafe  Sacher  was 
crowded,  and  the  white-jacketed  man  from  San 
Francisco  behind  the  Savoy  bar  produced  hot 
tamales  at  midnight,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

And,  quite  sincerely,  the  writer  has  never  found 
the   polite   professions  of   foreign  military  men 

69 


70  FIVE  FRONTS 

more  quickly  substantiated,  generously  and  uncon- 
ditionally, than  by  the  said  hoch-et-ceteras. 
"  You  will  have  no  expenses  whatever  while  with 
the  army,"  declared  the  final  oracle  in  the  Georg- 
kochplatz,  "  except  to  open  champagne  when  we 
win  our  victories." 

Perhaps  there  is  a  nigger  in  the  woodpile  lying 
low  for  pen  sympathy  in  all  this.  I  hope  not.  In 
the  end,  it  would  only  make  the  truth  more  easy 
and  diverting  to  write.  Probably  I  am  over-sus- 
picious, from  having  lingered  too  long  in  Paris. 

This  town  at  present  is  the  Austrian  army  head- 
quarters. To  have  been,  as  I  now  have,  at  the  re- 
spective bases  of  two  armies  in  the  field  —  and  ene- 
mies, at  that  —  should  offer  active  contrasts;  but 
the  fact  is,  the  heel  of  war  stamps  Noyon  or 
Coulommiers  among  the  warm  vineyards  of 
France,  and  these  cold  cabbage  fields  bordering 
the  Russian  plain  with  much  the  same  human  im- 
ages. 

Yonder  in  those  great  sandstone  barracks  — 
like  new  city  apartment  houses  —  is  the  royal 
Karl  Franz,  who  succeeded  the  Sarajevo  "  mar- 
tyr " ;  also  the  executive  head  of  the  dual  empire's 
forces.  General  von  Hotzendorff.  But  you  do 
not  see  them,  as  with  the  English  at  Coulommiers, 
mingling  with  troopers  and  populace ;  you  do  not 
hear  the  Hapsburg  Archduke  Frederick,  also  here, 
the    commander-in-chief,    greeted,    "  Sagen    Sie, 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS         71 

Fred,"  by  fellow  officers  with  the  same  casualness 
as  the  British  Duke  there  enjoyed.  But  Tommy, 
in  kilt  and  khaki,  at  a  tourist  saunter  in  France,  or 
boiling  beef  over  a  campfire  on  the  cobbles,  had 
the  same  detached,  unworried  air  as  has  his  cousin 
Otto  all  in  baggy  blue-grey,  with  a  high-fronted 
little  round  cap,  as  he  strolls  the  Ulica  Krakov- 
ska  here,  or  in  the  outlying  fields  ladles  soup  from 
his  wheeled  kitchen. 

Both  countries  found  army  and  populace 
racially  alien  to  one  another ;  in  each  the  incurious 
tolerance  of  the  people  towards  their  saviour  from 
invasion  has  been  amazing.  Trade  goes  on  in 
the  "rynek"  (marketplace),  crowded  with  little 
straw-filled  peasants'  carts ;  long-coated  Jews,  with 
the  two  orthodox  curls  before  their  ears,  gesticu- 
late and  haggle  with  a  mother  fitting  a  new  cap  on 
her  sturdy  youngster  from  the  hills,  as  avidly  as 
though  no  Cossack  could  ever  wreck  their  stock. 
A  priest  with  a  pompom  on  his  square-cornered  hat 
clatters  past  in  the  seediest  of  barouches,  and  down 
on  the  filthy  cobbles,  with  a  mediaeval  fervour 
quite  in  keeping  with  modern  war,  kneel  before 
him  all  the  shawled  Christian  women  in  sight. 
Perhaps  between  them  thunders  some  huge  war- 
coloured  motor-lorrie  filled  with  bread  or  ammuni- 
tion —  trucks  which  claim  in  huge  letters  a 
brewery  in  Budapest,  just  as  in  France  they  adver- 
tised some  English  soap.     And  each  moment  grey 


72  FIVE  FRONTS  ■     * 

motor-cars,  with  a  thin  lateral  girder  rigged  over- 
head to  raise  wire  entanglements  at  night,  chug 
and  plunge  through  streets  far  too  narrow  and 
winding  for  them;  only  here  the  British  flat  caps 
and  khaki  of  officers  are  replaced  by  blue-grey  flan- 
nel, but  with  gold,  scarlet,  or  orange  splashes  on 
the  collars,  and  already  stoles  of  fur.  You  miss 
only  the  motor-cycle  scouts  of  this  petrol  war. 
Polish  roads  are  as  bad  as  our  own. 

To  get  here  was  a  railroad  journey  of  forty- 
eight  hours,  made  in  six  in  times  of  peace,  with 
sleep  impossible  and  food  elusive.  But  in  the  sta- 
tions were  the  same  steaming  cauldrons  of  Red 
Cross  soup  as  In  France,  presided  over  by  young 
women  also  no  less  conscious  of  their  costumes 
than  of  their  responsibilities.  But  not  their 
favour  for  the  ever-suspected  foreigner;  and  I 
still  carry  the  blight  of  two  dawn  breakfasts  in 
the  unutterably  filthy  inns  of  places  like  Dsiedsitz 
and  Zywiec. 

At  last,  across  the  Silesian  border,  the  Car- 
pathians rose  southward,  snow  from  the  last  three 
days'  fall  still  whitening  the  high  pine  clearings. 
Northward,  thirty  miles  to  the  Russian  border, 
lay  a  rolling,  Appalachian-like  land  of  larch,  and 
birch  golden  with  autumn.  Instead  of  fence, 
there  were  hedges  of  clipped  spruce;  log  houses 
chinked  with  moss  and  clay;  barefooted  women 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS         73 

gathering  their  crops  of  cabbages  in  the  freezing 
muck  of  fields. 

At  each  station,  hordes  of  refugees,  now  that 
the  Russians  are  in  retreat,  crowded  on  and  off 
the  pottering  train,  returning  to  their  homes. 
The  shawled  heads,  bundles,  the  polyglot  tongues 
and  headlong,  bewildered  pace  matched  exactly 
those  of  our  immigrant  crowds  landing  at  the 
Battery.  It  made  one  feel  at  home;  far  more 
so  than  In  homogeneous,  self-sufficient  France. 
Here  were  the  ingredients  of  our  own  melting- 
pot,  all  as  unaware  of  so  likely  a  destiny  as  we 
are  of  the  problems  they  will  bring  us  after  the 
war. 

Especially  at  night  in  northern  Austria,  you 
felt  the  spell  of  the  war-god.  In  our  peace-proud 
eyes,  we  have  thought  voluntary  enlistments  im- 
possible in  nations  like  this  of  conscripts  and  mili- 
tary duty.  Yet,  apparently,  the  under-aged  and 
the  over  throughout  even  this  factional  country 
are  flocking  without  coercion  to  the  colours. 
There  Is  even  a  Polish  Legion,  moved,  of  course, 
by  hate  of  the  persecuting  Slav.  In  the  dark- 
ness you  saw  on  the  hats  of  youths  running  up 
and  down  the  platforms  the  glittering  gilt  and 
silver,  like  Christmas-tree  tinsel,  with  which  every 
volunteer  In  Austria  decks  himself  before  receiv- 
ing his  uniform  and  orders.     Bohemians,  Mora- 


74  FIVE  FRONTS 

vians  In  red  waistcoats  and  brass  buttons,  they 
raced  about  shouting  with  that  peculiar  vigour 
of  the  German  or  Germanized  peasantry,  which 
it  would  be  the  arch  calamity  of  this  world  war  to 
see  crushed  utterly ;  and  each  as  he  ran  sang 
snatches  of  some  haunting,  plaintive  battle-song. 

In  the  jammed  second  class  carriage  I  shared 
seats  with  two  young  infantry  officers  from  Vienna, 
who  up  to  now  had  done  only  a  year's  service,  and 
also  were  bound  for  the  front. 

"  You  ought  to  see  the  fierce  spirit  of  my  men," 
said  the  one  with  the  big  nose,  who  had  lived  a 
year  in  England.  "  And  they  come  from  all  over 
Austria-Hungary."  He  spoke  with  a  real  fer- 
vour, but  insisted,  too,  that  he  was  not  a  "  pro- 
fessional soldier,"  which,  perhaps,  accounted  for 
his  belligerency,  after  I  had  hinted  a  doubt  of 
the  genuineness  of  a  common  patriotism  in  this 
land. 

Only  hinted,  because  in  this  war,  where  the 
truth  lies  so  deep,  behind  so  many  veils  of  preju- 
dice and  press-agenting  that  one  begins  to  despair 
of  its  existence,  direct  questions  are  generally  fool- 
ish, and  may  be  dangerous.  Had  I  asked  why 
Hungarians  and  Austrians  were  quarrelling  in 
the  field  (as  one  reads  in  France),  they  would 
have  laughed  with  the  same  scorn  that  I,  having 
up  to  now  read  English  newspapers,  have  been 
tempted  to  voice  at  the  cock-sure  statements  of 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS  75 

their  press  that  India  and  Egypt  are  mutinous 
against  England. 

The  lieutenant's  companion  kept  taking  off  his 
hat  and  running  a  hand  through  his  close-cropped, 
whitish  hair.  He  was  the  true  bullet-headed 
Teuton,  with  extraordinary  high,  wide  cheek- 
bones and  a  tooth-brush  moustache.  He  was 
very  concerned  that  the  rules  of  active  service  had 
so  robbed  him  of  his  locks,  and  told  me  with  the 
simple  sentiment  of  his  race  how  his  "  liebe  " — 
best  girl,  supposedly  —  had  clipped  him  when  he 
left  her  that  very  morning. 

"  We  take  these  Ignorant  peasants,"  said  the 
other,  defending  universal  military  duty,  "  and  in 
a  year  of  discipline  have  made  men  out  of  ani- 
mals—  taught  ignorant  louts  how  to  read  and 
write." 

I  didn't  remind  him  that  the  sabre  was  not 
necessary  for  this,  and  that  less  money  than  a 
standing  army  absorbs,  spent  on  State  schools, 
would  turn  out  even  more  polished  gentlemen 
than  the  Austrian  private.  Fact  Is,  the  writer 
has  always  believed  in  compulsory  service,  but 
not  on  the  grounds  that  Europe  urges  for  it  and 
that  are  so  abhorrent  to  us.  This  war  must  pre- 
sent us  with  the  problem  of  defence  against  the 
predatory  commercialism  really  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

"  We  are  not  selfish  in  this  war,  we  are  not 


76  FIVE  FRONTS 

fighting  to  enrldi  ourselves,"  went  on  this  young 
man,  "  but  only  to  assure  the  peace  and  prosperity 
of  our  future  generations.  .  .  .  Yet  it  is  a  trade 
war,  not  a  national  or  dynastic  war,  least  of  all 
a  popular  war.  England  seems  to  think,  she 
should  rule  the  world  because  she  can  beat  us  at 
making  haberdashery." 

A  clever  fellow.  One  must  always  bow  to  sin- 
cere idealism,  which  it  never  pays  to  argue  with. 
His  nose  acquitted  him.  But  I  wonder  how  he 
will  fight. 

We  tried  to  sleep,  our  feet  sprawling  against 
one  another's  stomachs,  heads  on  the  knapsacks 
covered  In  cowhide  with  the  hair  on.  Once  the 
youngster  of  the  "  Hebe  "  woke  with  a  start,  and 
answered  the  other's  query  of  what  ailed  him  — 
*'  I  was  wondering,"  said  he,  "  whether  this 
won't  be  my  last  railroad  journey."  And  I  ask, 
what  man  of  a  race  other  than  this  terrible,  bru- 
tal Teutonic  one,  could  have  had  the  guileless  sen- 
timentalism  to  think,  or  thinking,  speak  so,  on  his 
way  to  the  firing-line  ? 

The  lights  started  to  go  out;  but  the  royster- 
ing  crowd  of  civilians  all  about  us  waxed  noisier, 
as  they  began  to  munch  cold  goose  and  sausages, 
to  pass  about  black  bottles  and  tiny  schnapp 
glasses.  One  Pole,  rather  the  worse  for  these, 
had  a  long  time  been  glaring  darkly  at  me  over  his 
fierce   moustachios.     He   demanded   aggressively 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS         77 

what  language  I  was  speaking.  It  took  some 
time  for  my  clever  friend  to  appease  and  con- 
vince him  that  Americans  also  used  the  tongue  of 
the  perfidious  English.  His  friends  had  agreed, 
he  told  us,  that  we  were  talking  Swedish.  Where- 
upon we  all  shared  their  queer  drinks,  mixing 
plum  brandy  and  kiimmel  in  the  little  glasses. 

In  the  morning,  stepping  out  into  this  town,  it 
was  as  If  the  seat  of  war  had  been  transported 
on  a  magic  carpet  to  the  region  of  Hester  Street, 
New  York.  It  Is  only  a  large  village,  with  the 
sewage  flowing  through  the  middle  of  some 
streets,  as  In  Mexico ;  but  the  buildings  that  closely 
line  the  main  Ullca  Krakovska,  in  their  heavily 
lintelled  windows  and  rococo  cornices,  are  our 
East  Side  to  a  T.  In  a  cafe  I  got  breakfast  from 
a  returned  emigrant  who  had  been  a  waiter  in 
Max  Schwartz's  Cafe  Liberty,  on  Houston  Street, 
and  claimed  the  friendship  of  W.  T.  Jerome  and 
Judge  Kernochan.  Back  there,  the  veal  and 
poultry  on  the  way  to  be  killed  "  kosher  "  is  driven 
in  cooped  wagons;  here,  as  I  ate,  I  watched  peas- 
ant women  on  the  way  to  rynek  hugging  live 
geese  under  their  cloaks,  till  one  ran  amuck  with 
a  splendiferous  dragoon,  in  scarlet  trousers, 
dragging  sword,  and  golden  frogs  on  his  astrachan 
coat.  Next,  an  old  fellow  In  his  stinking  yellow 
sheep-skins  driving  a  pig  with  a  string  tied  to 
his  hind  leg  down  the  local  Grand  Street,  defi- 


78  FIVE  FRONTS 

antly,  perhaps.  Last,  the  ominous  clatter  of 
hoofs,  and  here  passes  a  company  of  Hussars  re- 
turning from  the  battlefield,  the  men  mud-smeared 
from  their  ashen  faces  to  the  yellow  facings 
of  their  coats  (red-facings  for  the  few  Hun- 
garians among  them),  the  horses  pitifully  thin, 
many  riderless,  and  with  festering  sores  on  their 
backs. 

But  my  pilgrimage  from  the  hochwohlgeboren 
to  hoch-ditto  was  not  yet  ended.  Now  in  one 
office,  where  a  pair  of  skis  leaned  in  a  corner,  I 
was  handed  the  aforesaid  brassard  from  the 
drawer  of  a  field  kit.  Outside  another,  an  aged 
beggar  sat  moaning  and  beseeching  on  a  heap  of 
crushed  stone.  Twice,  to  maintain  the  mediaeval 
flavour,  I  was  asked  what  my  religion  was.  And 
finally  landed,  after  a  five-mile  drive  in  an  enor- 
mous sea-going  hack,  through  seas  of  mud  punc- 
tuated with  gay  roadside  madonnas  on  stucco 
pedestals,  to  the  mess  of  K.  u.  K.  Kriegpresse- 
quartier  Feldpostamt  No.  39,  In  the  "  casino  "  of 
a  poultry-ridden,  unsanitary  inn,  where  one's  fel- 
low-guests include  at  least  one  Hungarian  jour- 
nalist who  used  to  be  a  trick  bicycle  rider  — 
yes,  at  Hammerstein's,  New  York  —  and  every 
one  clicks  his  heels  together  and  bows  to  the  col- 
onel before  sitting  down  to  eat.  And  by  after- 
noon I  had  had  my  chest  jabbed  with  hypodermic 
and  received  five  hundred  million  dead  cholera 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS         79 

germs  as  a  prophylactic,  for  there  are  some  four- 
teen cases  here. 

Since,  in  the  process  of  adapting  one's  self,  you 
have  as  a  neutral  to  reply  tactfully  to  such  with- 
ering questions  as,  "  And  what  do  you  think  of 
England  now  for  plunging  the  world  into  this 
war?"  To  accept  such  eye-openers  as  the  sol- 
emn statement  (by  a  Hungarian)  that  all  which 
is  decent  and  worthy  in  the  Russian  comes  through 
his  Asiatic  Tartar  blood. 

One  tries  hard  to  understand.  For  instance, 
yesterday  we  were  all  to  be  taken  to  see  a  spy 
shot.  He  was  a  Ruthenian  priest  of  the  Greek 
Church.  Ruthenians  are  Slavs,  and  their  peas- 
antry scattered  through  the  country  are  prone  to 
help  the  invaders.  It  was  to  be  a  show  execu- 
tion, to  teach  a  moral  lesson,  but  at  the  last  mo- 
ment was  called  off.  The  culprit's  conviction  was 
changed  to  lese-majeste,  and  he  was  pardoned. 

The  easy-going,  generous  refinement  of  the 
average  Austrian  is  world-famous.  At  Vienna, 
in  official  quarters  not  to  be  mentioned,  I  was 
urged  to  "  give  these  people  a  square  deal,  because 
they  haven't  had  it  yet."  Well,  there  is  the  wife 
of  a  captain  here,  who,  ever  since  the  war  began, 
has  been  trying  to  follow  him  to  the  front.  Twice 
or  thrice  she  has  been  sent  back.  She  haunts  the 
cafe  of  my  East  Side  waiter,  collects  officers  about 
her,  pours  out  her  yearnings  and  her  troubles. 


8o  FIVE  FRONTS 

They  admit  that  she  is  a  nuisance,  that  she  has 
no  business  here;  but  they  listen  and  sympathise 
with  her  by  the  hour.  To  my  suggestion,  with 
Lord  Kitchener's  warning  to  the  English  army  in 
mind,  that  she  be  arrested,  the  answer  is  made, 
*'  Impossible,  impossible,  to  treat  a  woman  so. 
We  are  powerless."  Again.  Driving  home  the 
other  evening,  three  young  Polish  girls  in  a  road- 
side farm  ran  out  shouting  and  hailing  our  car- 
riage. To  my  amazement,  we  stopped,  and  an 
officer  got  out  to  attend  to  them.  They  ran  back 
giggling  to  the  house :  it  was  only  a  girl's  imperti- 
nent fooling.  But  with  the  ideas  bne  has  been 
given  of  the  Germans'  treatment  of  peasantry,  my 
heart  was  for  a  moment  in  my  mouth.  The  offi- 
cer chased  and  caught  one  of  the  girls.  It  was 
rather  dark  —  but  I  think  I  saw  him  kiss  her. 

So  in  this  war,  no  matter  which  army  one  is 
with,  it  is  hard  for  a  neutral  not  to  feel  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  side  that  he  is  on.  Necessarily 
then,  you  are  too  far  from  its  exiguous  coun- 
cils, frqm  those  single,  Inevitable  brutalities  of 
nation-wide  firing-lines  that  loom  so  large  as  the 
horrors,  truths,  and  deceptions  of  a  neutral  press 
—  to  be  sophisticated  by  partisanship.  One  is 
confined  to  Neu  Sandec,  where  it  is  impossible  to 
buy  a  towel,  and  a  shop  that  sells  soap  sticks  out 
a  sign  to  tell  you. 

Sometimes  we  go  camping  in  the  Carpathian 


INTO  THE  CARPATHIANS         8i 

foothills.  There  last  Sunday  we  ran  into  a  band 
of  ten-year-olds,  playing  Cossack  and  Austrian, 
fighting  a  Buffalo  Bill  battle.  They  had  wooden 
rifles,  tiny  knapsacks  covered  with  cow-skin.  All 
over  Europe,  I  suppose,  instead  of  tops  or  mar- 
bles, or  whatever  the  seasonal  games  are,  from 
Antivari  to  Dundee,  the  rising  generation  is  play- 
ing at  war. 

When  it  grows  up,  how  will  these  days  influ- 
ence its  outlook  upon  life  and  the  future?  Those 
youngsters  may  then  be  the  only  men  alive  in  their 
various  fatherlands. 


II 

THE  CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL 

Przemysl,  October  25-November  3. —  Last 
evening  while  we  skidded  down  the  hill  toward 
the  River  San,  the  flashes  of  Russian  artillery 
fire  twelve  miles  to  the  eastward  pulsed  through 
the  night-mist  like  reddish  heat  lightning.  Yet 
then,  as  we  passed  the  sentries  of  the  outer 
and  the  inner  fortifications,  where  nothing  was 
visible  except  great  redoubts  of  sod  and  masses 
of  wire  entanglements,  and  received  the  "  Feld- 
ruf "  (password),  you  could  hear  no  detona- 
tions; nor  any  throughout  the  night  In  this  long- 
beleaguered  Austrian  stronghold.  But  certainly 
a  battle  was  on.  In  the  streets  our  headlights 
struck  the  blinking  eyelids  of  endless  files  of  grey 
infantry,  trudging  afield  under  their  hairy  knap- 
sacks; and  toward  midnight  in  the  Cafe  Stieber  it 
was  whispered  that  again  the  Russians  were  at- 
tempting to  surround  the  city. 

To  this  place  from  the  Austrian  staff  headquar- 
ters, as  the  crow  flies,  it  is  scarcely  sixty  miles, 
but  by  motor-cars  and  rail  it  took  us  three  days 
and  nights.  As  to  mud  and  landscape,  you  might 
have  been  touring  the  Piedmont  region  of  Vir- 

82 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     83 

ginia.  The  single-track  railroad  was  blocked 
with  returning  hospital  trains,  trains  of  wounded, 
of  Russian  prisoners,  Red  Cross  trains  going  for- 
ward; each  with  no  less  than  two  engines  and  two 
dozen  cars.  Remember,  that  for  all  one  reads  of 
France  and  Belgium,  this  eastern  war  theatre  is 
by  far  the  greater  both  in  length  of  firing  line  and 
numbers  engaged.  The  line  extends  from  the 
Baltic  Sea  to  Rumania,  now  that  the  German  and 
Austrian  armies  are  joined.  Here  three  nations 
with  some  6,000,000  men  in  arms  face  one  an- 
other in  unending  battle. 

But  a  nearer  marvel  lies  in  the  contrast,  both 
human  and  military,  between  the  war  here  and 
the  war  in  the  west;  and  in  that  difference  there 
is  a  resemblance  of  significance  for  Americans. 
Yesterday  as  we  pushed  our  car  over  the  high 
divide  between  two  forks  of  the  San,  no  veteran 
of  our  War  of  the  Secession  could  have  stood 
among  those  yellowing  birches  and  believed  his 
eyes.  Arms  bandaged  in  slings,  limping,  bracing 
themselves  with  sticks,  the  wounded  slipped  and 
tottered  down  the  hills  —  afoot,  mind  you,  in 
muddy  grey  uniforms  and  high-fronted  caps,  al- 
most the  exact  colour  and  design  of  the  South's. 
It  was  1864,  not  19 14.  It  was  as  if  the  years 
between  had  profited  mankind  nothing,  the  world 
had  not  moved  since  then. 

I  have  cited  the  likeness  of  a  British  to  an 


84  FIVE  FRONTS 

Austrian  headquarters;  but  outside  such  a  place 
you  meet  here  the  grim,  labourious  opposite  to 
the  swift  gasolene  war  in  France.  Into  the  Neu 
Sandec  railroad  station,  as  we  left  it,  rolled  a  train 
of  wounded,  of  bearded  creatures  crowding  the 
wide  doors  of  luggage  vans,  staring  from  their 
swathings  with  the  meek  daze  of  the  discarded 
conscript.  The  hind  car  was  a  passenger  carriage. 
Two  men  in  gloves,  clad  from  head  to  foot  in 
white  rubber,  stood  on  the  platform.  A  stretcher 
was  waiting  outside  the  last  compartment.  Two 
soldiers  were  lugging  a  limp  body  from  it,  by  the 
head  and  heels,  as  one  does  a  dead  man.  He 
sank  upon  the  canvas  without  a  sound  nor  the 
tensing  of  one  muscle.  He  was  middle-aged, 
thinly  bearded,  his  nose  had  once  been  broken,  and 
his  cheeks  had  a  queer  greenish  pallor.  A  Red 
Cross  man  pushed  through  the  hushed  throng,  his 
arms  forward,  unfolding  a  big  square  of  paper. 
He  slapped  It  upon  the  carriage  with  the  same 
perfunctory  deftness  that  a  theatrical  advance 
agent  shows  a  bill-board.  It  read  In  great  ver- 
milion letters :  CHOLERA. 

That  morning  In  my  visit  to  General  Conrad  von 
Hotzendorf,  who,  so  to  speak,  is  the  General  Joffre 
of  the  Austrian  army,  he  had  given  warning  of 
the  disease  without  —  and  justly,  from  his  view- 
point —  conceding  any  alarming  figures.  In  half 
an  hour  this  was  all  that  one  could  get  out  of 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     85 

that  alert,  questioning,  and  genial  master  of  a 
nation's  fate,  who,  with  his  grey-white  pompadour 
hair  and  over-bright  eyes,  somehow  suggests  a 
young  lion,  though  he  is  quite  sixty.  One  of  his 
sons  has  been  killed,  another  wounded,  yet  he 
wears  no  black  on  either  arm  of  his  small 
body. 

The  same  night,  by  rail,  on  this  last  lap  to  the 
front,  was  but  following  the  white  trail  of  the 
scourge.  All  along  the  ties  and  rails  it  lay,  livid, 
in  the  tons  of  lime  scattered  there  to  destroy  in- 
fection dropped  by  returning  sick  and  wounded. 
Next  day  many  passing  hospital  cars  bore  in  white 
chalk  the  fateful  legend.  Cholera  verddchtig. 
We  may  land  in  one  of  these  yet.  That  night 
we  moved  our  blankets  from  the  stuffy  carriage  to 
sleep  in  the  open  air  on  one  of  the  flat  cars  that 
carried  our  motors.  And  we  woke  in  the  morn- 
ing to  find  hanging,  one  on  the  foot  of  my  navy 
cot,  one  on  the  radiator  of  a  machine,  two  pairs 
of  much-soiled  undergarments  flung  from  a  pass- 
ing train. 

By  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  had 
passed  seven  trains.  In  one  I  counted  twenty- 
seven  cars,  with  but  a  single  surgeon  aboard. 
And  from  the  battlefields  in  this  region  alone  at 
least  three  lines  of  rail  are  open.  Ever  since  the 
war  began  I  have  been  haunted  with  the  thought 
that  no  human  agencies  could,  with  all  justice  to 


86  FIVE  FRONTS 

modern  altruism  and  science,  cope  with  the  masses 
of  wounded.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  the  truth 
of  such  a  speculation  hit  me  concretely.  As  the 
jammed  cars  ground  westward,  the  great  red 
crosses  on  them,  the  "  Kranke  "  in  black  letters 
underneath,  began  to  dance  in  the  back  of  my 
mind.  Vanished,  those  shadowy  crosses  still  flew 
over  the  weeping  willows  of  the  roadsides,  over 
the  high  thatchings,  green  with  moss,  of  the 
peasants'  log  hovels.  And  you  knew  that  over 
with  the  Russians  the  same  pitiful  cargoes  were 
trundling  eastv/ard. 

Still  they  passed  us.  Arms  were  thrust  out 
from  bandages,  holding  caps,  which  we  showered 
with  cigarettes.  The  men  shouted  and  scrambled 
for  them.  Tied  to  the  button  on  each  man's  right 
shoulder  was  a  small  white  tag,  noting  the  nature 
and  location  of  his  hurt.  Occasionally  at  a  halt 
some  grimed  and  hairy  fellow  would  step  off  for 
a  moment  upon  the  lime  of  the  white  trail,  drag- 
ging after  him  a  bandaged  foot.  And  your  one 
thought  was :  It  all  cannot  last  long  —  it  never, 
never  can  last.  The  while  the  famous  Viennese 
caricaturist  in  our  party,  which  included  all  social 
degrees  from  a  real  Hungarian  nobleman  to  a 
"  sob-sister  "  from  New  Jersey,  sketched  us  on  the 
outside  of  our  carriage  into  roars  of  laughter. 

Then  the  Russian  prisoners.  Mostly  they 
peered  from  tiny  gratings  In  the  tops  of  their 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     87 

wheeled  prisons,  the  round-brimmed,  khakl-col- 
oured  caps  looking  Ironically  English  above  their 
snub  Slav  noses  and  corn-coloured  beards.  To 
my  greeting  In  their  language,  "  Drashtite!  Kak 
posheviatef  '*  those  crowded  in  the  doorways 
around  the  bayonets  of  the  guards  returned  the 
hail,  and  held  out  brass  buttons  from  their  uni- 
forms in  exchange  for  cigarettes.  Once,  in  his 
eagerness  during  a  stop,  one  tumbled  out,  to  be 
fiercely  prodded  back  into  the  coop  with  a  rifle- 
butt. 

The  shift  Into  the  motors  was  at  some  tongue- 
twisting  village.  In  the  sunless  and  bluish  Ga- 
lician  haze  we  headed  for  Sanok,  among  the 
quilted  cabbage  and  vivid  green  winter  rye  fields, 
along  roads  marked  with  stucco  shrines.  Sanok, 
held  for  three  weeks  by  the  Russians,  showed  no 
more  sign  of  that  than  one  cornice,  in  the  heavy 
house  style  of  Poland,  split  by  a  shell,  two  bullet- 
holes  In  the  Etappenkommando's  window,  and 
utter  dearth  of  cigarettes  and  matches  which  is 
the  unvarying  mark  of  every  captured  town  in 
Europe. 

Sanok,  despite  Its  horde  of  soldiery,  its  thrifty 
Jews,  in  their  curled  peikas  and  black  coats,  was 
filthier  than  the  meanest  Chinese  village,  and 
without  China's  lamp-lit  gaiety.  The  inn  where 
we  spent  the  night  had  for  sanitation  only  an  open 
yard  behind;  but  the  proprietor's  wife  wore  an 


88  FIVE  FRONTS 

elegant  wig,  and  her  face  was  powdered.  If 
Austria  has  never  been  able  to  clean  Galicia,  let 
the  war  give  it  to  some  nation  that  will.  A  sani- 
tary service,  In  our  army's  sense,  appears  not  to 
exist  with  these  Austrians.  Vera  Cruz,  before  we 
started  to  scour  it,  was  a  spotless  town  compared 
with  any  here.  And  sometimes  one  wonders  why 
cholera  haunts  eastern  Europe! 

Thus  next  morning  it  was  hard  to  show  sym- 
pathy with  my  two  naturalised  fellow-citizens  who 
tackled  me  on  the  eternal  question  of  how  to  get 
back  to  America.  They  had  their  fare  and  their 
papers,  but  neither  the  initiative  to  start,  nor  to 
write  to  our  Embassy  in  Vienna  —  to  the  servants 
they  employed  for  the  very  purpose  of  helping 
them.  Stated  so,  they  gaped  at  the  fact. 
Neither  had  ever  been  west  of  the  Hudson  or 
north  of  14th  Street.  They  were  of  that  mass 
of  immigrants  whose  money-orders  support  these 
Galician  villages  and  half  southern  Italy.  One 
was  a  little  woman  in  black  with  a  sharp  chin 
and  gold  teeth  bought  on  Grand  Street;  the 
man  wore  a  "  sealskin "  coat,  and  greeted  me 
over  the  top  of  a  fence  on  the  main  street,  be- 
hind which  he  was  making  such  a  toilet  as  one 
can  in  Galicia.  Decidedly  it  is  a  country  with  a 
people  which  makes  you  an  iconoclast  regarding 
our  immigration  laws.  This  mine  for  the  melt- 
ing-pot —  and  after  the  war  we  shall  be  deluged 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     89 

with  its  output  —  does  fill  one  with  understand- 
ing for  the  ideal  yearnings  to  escape  expressed  by 
a  Mary  Antin;  and  at  the  same  time  makes  you 
cynical  toward  the  pathetic  realism  of  Slav  litera- 
ture. It  omits  the  essence  of  life  in  its  milieu  — 
filth  and  stench. 

We  followed  the  route  of  the  Russian  retreat. 
By  ten  o'clock  we  had  overtaken  and  passed 
three  trains  of  supply  wagons  headed  for  the  front, 
in  all  469  rigs,  and  not  one  motor-truck.  You 
were  in  a  different  world,  a  different  age,  from 
the  war  in  France.  Long  and  narrow,  on  very 
small  wheels,  with  in-sloping  sides  of  woven  wil- 
low withes,  the  soiled,  hooded  coverings  of  these 
carts  suggested  a  toy  emigrant  train  of  our  West. 
From  every  hilltop  they  wound  forward,  an  end- 
less coil  of  evenly  spaced,  whitish  dots  along  the 
road.  We  threaded  them,  the  heaps  of  hay  high 
on  each  tailboard.  Vacant  peasant  faces'  under 
round  sheep-wool  caps  stole  cowed  and  wonder- 
ing stares  at  us,  as  they  urged  on  the  bony  horses 
to  the  creak  of  countless  little  wheels  in  the  glut 
of  mud.  You  felt  the  amazing,  searching  force 
of  organisation  that  war  demands;  ability  in  ad- 
ministration against  grim,  far-flung  odds  beside 
which  the  most  complex  commercial  enterprises 
must  be  child's  play.  No.  It  could  never,  never 
last,  this  war.  What  of  the  wives,  daughters, 
mothers,  of  those  sturdy  drivers?     Barefoot  in 


90  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  sodden  fields  they  hoed  over  the  muck  for  po- 
tatoes no  bigger  than  walnuts.  O,  for  one  good 
winter  blizzard  in  this  grim  land!  The  spring 
planting,  the  war,  for  the  moment  assumed  an 
equal  precariousness. 

Where  these  outfits  had  camped,  or  rested  in 
serried  ranks,  suggested,  but  on  an  enormous 
scale,  the  Klondike  trek  in  1898.  Fires  twinkled 
among  the  heaps  of  fodder;  grey,  straggling  pri- 
vates boiled  soup  in  their  aluminum  pots.  There 
were  parks  of  artillery  caissons,  their  trucks  also 
heaped  with  hay.  At  a  railroad  station  where 
we  crossed  the  line,  mountains  of  shrapnel  and  ma- 
chine-gun ammunition;  a  field  bakery  of  a  dozen 
oblong,  low  mud-ovens,  belching  smoke  from 
stove-pipes.  At  one  cross-roads,  where  plainly  a 
stand  in  the  retreat  had  been  made,  was  an  ar- 
tillery cover  of  pine  branches  stuck  into  the  hill- 
side, dismembered  wheels  prone  in  the  mud,  a 
wrecked  mass  of  wagons  —  yes,  some  marked 
with  red  crosses.  But  the  smaller  trains  return- 
ing down  the  road  bore  the  grimmest  flavour.  In 
most  sat  mute  beings  with  bandaged  heads,  or 
grasping  their  canteens  in  arms  not  yet  cased  in 
sling  or  splint.  Grey  blankets  outlined  hidden 
shapes  from  which  you  turned  your  eyes,  because 
they  did  not  brace  against  the  jolting.  And  still 
riding  across  the  fields,  emerging  or  vanishing 
along  the  lines  of  woods,  lone  horsemen  kept  up 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     91 

the  search  which  the  instinct  of  all  flesh  to  hide  in 
its  final  hour  makes  needful. 

On  the  long  hill  of  switchbacks,  leading  to  the 
divide  I  mentioned,  pieces  of  lint  and  bandages 
were  scattered  among  the  alders.  Everywhere 
were  empty  goulash  cans,  goulash  being  ration 
in  this  army  quite  as  seriously  as  tea  is  for  the 
Briton;  and,  maybe,  too,  it  has  paprika  trans- 
ports. At  the  height  of  land,  marked  by  a  cross, 
we  met  the  only  motor  of  the  day,  and  it  was 
hitched  to  a  team  of  horses.  Down  the  other 
side,  the  road  was  being  graded,  and  that  by 
women,  mind  you,  barefoot,  with  their  short  skirts 
hitched  above  the  knees  and  hooded  heads  bent 
low  on  the  long  shovels. 

One  had  to  pause  and  convince  himself  of  the 
calendar  year.  Beside  such  a  triumph  of  femi- 
nism, the  next  instant  you  were  jerked  back  a 
century  or  so.  A  beggar,  in  his  garb  tumbled 
straight  out  of  mediaeval  allegory,  sat  waving  on 
high  a  gleaming  brass  crucifix.  Under  the  stone 
arch  of  a  roadside  shrine  knelt  a  grey  infantry- 
man, with  bowed  head  and  rifle  leaned  against 
the  robe  of  Christ.  And  on  the  doors  of  the 
Ruthenians'  cabins  —  the  Little  Russians  —  were 
whitewashed  holy  crosses,  as  a  token  to  their  in- 
invading  brothers,  modern  angels  of  death,  to 
pass  them  by  in  peace. 

War,  you  wondered,   war  again  in  this  old, 


92  FIVE  FRONTS 

blood-stained  arena  of  Europe.  And  this  was  but 
the  spoor  and  fringe  of  war.  Shall  any  one  ever 
see  or  grasp  the  seethe  of  it,  who  has  the  eyes 
and  heart  to  tell  the  truth? 

It  was  thus  we  descended  through  the  dark- 
ness, until  the  lamps  of  Przemysl  looped  upward 
in  even  lines  from  that  river-bed,  where  70,000 
men  have  just  fallen  within  their  shadows. 

Will  the  Russians  take  the  city?  They  have 
not  powerful  enough  artillery  on  hand  as  yet. 
But  any  fort  can  in  time  be  starved  out.  Here 
Przemysl  and  Belfort  are  declared  the  two  first 
fortresses  of  Europe.  "  But  we  know  very  well," 
one  officer  told  me  with  true  Austrian  candour, 
**  that  Przemysl  is  not  so  strong."  Still,  as  the 
world  knows,  the  first  lesson  of  this  war  has  been 
the  answer  to,  What  is  a  fortress?  Just  march 
around  it.  Liege,  Namur,  Maubeuge,  an  army 
may  march  around,  but  not  here,  through  the  mud 
and  forests  of  Galicia. 

But  you  hear  no  boasts;  instead,  if  one  pries, 
he  gets  a  generous  recognition  of  Russian 
strength.  The  feats  of  her  artillery  are  one  of 
the  surprises  of  the  war.  "  If  our  own  were  as 
effective,  we  should  be  in  Kiev  by  now,"  General 
von  Kusmanek,  in  command  here,  has  said;  add- 
ing, "  And  if  the  Russian  infantry  were  as  good 
as  ours,  they  would  have  been  in  Cracow."  Al- 
most a  shameless  confession,   that,  of  Austrian 


CHOLERA  TRAIL  TO  PRZEMYSL     93 

officers'  inferiority,  for  it  is  upon  the  officer  indi- 
vidually that  the  worth  of  artillery  most  depends. 
It  is  long  after  midnight.  If  I  listen  as  I 
write,  there  can  be  heard  the  fitful,  droning  de- 
tonations of  mortars  in  the  outer  cincture  of  forts, 
only  one  of  which  has  yet  been  destroyed. 


Ill 


FROM  THE  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE 

I  JOINED  the  daily  sortie  into  this  unending  bat- 
tle, which  rages  east  of  here,  in  the  half-circle 
sector  from  Radymno  on  the  north  to  Sambor  in 
the  Carpathian  foothills. 

At  eight  o'clock  we  left  the  Cafe  Stieber.  Its 
fetor  and  filthy  tables  were  as  yet  uncrowded  by 
stout  reserve  officers  playing  chess,  in  gold  and 
scarlet  trappings,  dangling  swords  and  clinking 
spurs.  We  carried  bottled  water  that  we  had 
boiled,  for  the  third  word  on  every  man's  lips 
was  "  cholera."  I  was  told  off  to  an  officer  and 
warned  not  to  lose  him  in  the  field.  On  the  steps 
a  dragoon  used  as  a  servant  dabbed  at  his  boots 
with  a  polishing  cloth.  In  the  street  was  halted 
a  long  line  of  field  guns  returning  from  action  to 
be  relined,  their  carriages  mud-crusted,  muzzles 
worn  and  scorched  from  breathing  death.  The 
grey  beings  perched  beside  them  slept. 

We  climbed  into  the  straw  that  filled  a  spring- 
less,  seatless,  basket-sided  wagon.  At  once  the 
wizened  and  red-bearded  old  driver  told  me,  and 
in  English,  that  he  used  to  work  in  a  Connecti- 
cut watch.factory.     He  lashed  the  bony  pair  of 

94 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     95 

ponies,  and  when  I  declared  them  too  weak  to  last 
the  day  out,  he  retorted  in  a  breath  cutting  from 
alcohol  how  that  was  no  affair  of  his.  The  long 
street  led  southeast  from  the  rynek,  by  the  heavy 
domes  and  gilt  of  a  synagogue,  by  moving  picture 
dens  among  the  heavy  lintels  of  deserted  streets; 
past  a  rambling  yellow  hospital,  its  yard  pitted  by 
Russian  shells. 

We  became  but  a  link  in  two  tightly  packed, 
moving  lines,  that  all  the  way  to  the  gate  at  the 
inner  fortifications  and  beyond  crept  in  opposite 
directions.  It  was  the  nourishing  vein,  umbilical 
cord,  of  the  battle-line.  Our  procession  of  carts 
piled  with  hay,  beef  carcasses,  flour  sacks,  ammuni- 
tion boxes,  kept  fouling,  or  was  checked  by,  the 
returning  stream.  Drivers  cracked  whips  at  their 
poor  rearing  teams,  shouted,  dismounted  to  free 
the  locked  hubs.  Most  of  the  carts  and  caissons 
bound  for  the  city  were  empty,  but  a  few  bore 
grimed  uniforms  and  pale,  loose-jawed  faces  — 
sick  or  wounded  men  —  gaping  vacantly  at  the 
winter  mist  that  rose  from  the  hundreds  of  sweat- 
ing horses. 

At  last  the  gate,  between  zigzag  fences  of 
barbed  wire,  which  pitched  to  right  and  left  up 
the  sodden  grass  of  low  hills  toward  two  of  the 
main  forts.  They  were  some  two  kilometres 
from  the  heart  of  the  city,  less  than  half  a  mile 
apart,  and  not  to  be  recognised  as  fortifications 


96  FIVE  FRONTS 

except  that  the  birch  groves  crowning  each  had 
all  their  lower  limbs  lopped  off.  We  dipped  into 
a  vast,  open  plain.  The  sun,  an  orange  lozenge 
embroiled  in  haze,  weakly  glazed  quilts  of  green 
rye,  and  the  helmets  of  drilling  cavalry.  At 
scattered  points  on  the  soil  that  shone  like  jet, 
each  company  rode  in  a  circle  like  a  slow  merry- 
go-round. 

Gradually  the  pollard  willows  that  made  our 
road  an  avenue  lost  their  tufted  branches,  cut 
away  to  clear  the  view  and  make  the  great  glacis 
we  were  entering,  until  they  seemed  less  trees  than 
the  gigantic  clubs  of  savages  set  up  on  end.  Ap- 
peared the  railway  to  Sanok,  stalking  across  the 
plain  in  a  thin  comb  of  telegraph  poles;  then  oc- 
casional houses,  utterly  demolished  except  for  the 
brick  stump  of  some  chimney.  A  homing  cart 
carried  a  huge  white  hog. 

"  Like  a  general,"  said  I,  "  going  to  a  ban- 
quet." 

"  But  to  be  eaten,"  said  my  officer,  Captain 
Michl,  who  in  civil  life  is  a  poet  and  author,  "  not 
to  eat  it." 

Low  wooden  sheds  flanked  us  on  one  side. 
The  throng  of  blue-grey  soldiers  loafing  against 
them  with  arms  and  heads  bandaged,  drinking  in 
the  pale  sunlight  —  circular  sprays  of  whitewash 
on  the  planks.  Red  Cross  carts  with  searchlights 
parked  across  the  road  —  marked  this  a  field-hos- 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     97 

pital.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  Away  to  the  west, 
across  the  valley  of  the  San,  the  dull  tremors  to 
which  my  ears  had  long  been  straining  hardened 
into  the  boom  and  throb  of  heavy  guns.  Then 
before  spread  the  first  reservoir  of  our  living 
streams,  acres  teeming  with  the  life  of  a  great 
base  camp  behind  the  firing  line. 

Afoot,  we  entered  between  the  red  and  white 
squares  of  two  cavalry  flags,  Into  action  and  va- 
riety that  snatched  you  back  to  those  war  scenes 
painted  of  Napoleon's  days.  Equal  colour  to 
the  eye  this  Indeed  lacked;  but  in  vastness  and  by 
the  poignancy  of  sounds  and  scents  It  was  outside 
any  technic  to  portray.  Your  eyes  were  moments 
untangling  from  that  pathless  home  of  two  army 
corps  —  80,000  men  —  of  wagons,  horses, 
smoke,  stacked  rifles,  mud,  men,  single  entities 
like  here  a  grey  hill  of  oat-sacks,  there  a  steaming 
pile  of  manure.  A  creek  flowing  through  the  mid- 
dle was  dotted  with  bent  men  half  naked,  gossip- 
ing as  they  washed  their  clothes.  Field  forges 
squirted  flame;  there  was  a  ceaseless  ringing  of 
hammers  upon  horseshoes,  on  cherry-red  axle- 
trees;  the  continual  thump  of  beaten  horseblan- 
kets;  the  hail  of  comrades  from  one  campfire  to 
another  where  they  boiled  potatoes  in  their  tight- 
covered,  blackened  pots,  or  strung  shirts  and 
trousers  upon  a  rope  line  between  tree-stumps. 

"Hello  —  American  1"  I  heard,  beginning  to 


98  FIVE  FRONTS 

feel  that  all  here,  relieved  for  a  while  in  this  safe 
cover  of  the  forts,  were  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
among  them  even  an  archduke. 

A  grinning  youth,  square-jawed  and  with 
heavy  eye-brows,  slid  off  a  wagon-tongue  to  seize 
me  by  the  hand.  And  why?  Because  I  was 
wearing  the  khaki  and  broad-brimmed  hat  of  an 
American  marine.  Three  years  he  had  worked 
in  an  Ohio  lock  factory,  returned  without  his  citi- 
zenship papers  to  visit  parents  in  Galicia,  and  been 
clapped  into  the  army.  I  felt  that  he  spoke  half 
in  gladness  to  meet  a  fellow-citizen,  half  in  pride 
for  his  comrades  to  see  that  he  recognised  my  rig 
and  could  talk  with  some  one  from  our  fabled 
land.  All  day  my  hat  and  laced  gaiters  branded 
me  as  plainly  as  if  I  had  flown  the  stars  and 
stripes,  and  proved  the  Austrian  army  polyglot  in 
an  unexpected  way  and  by  hardly  generous  means 
from  our  viewpoint. 

"  You  like  it,  having  to  fight,"  I  asked, 
"  whether  or  not  you  want  to?  " 

"  Sure,  when  we're  beating  them,"  he  said. 

"  But  now  you're  not." 

"  Huh !  Aren't  we  ?  The  General  says  we'll 
be  back  in  Lemberg  in  four  weeks.  It's  only 
twelve  miles  to  there,  and  four  to  Grodek,  that 
we  captured  yesterday." 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  say.  I  left  him, 
wondering  how  a  real  American  could  be  so  credu- 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     99 

lous.  He  still  believed  authority,  quite  as  the 
Vienna  populace,  when  stunned  by  defeats,  re- 
assures itself:  "It  is  all  right.  Our  Emperor 
will  allow  no  more  of  that."  Lemberg  was  forty 
miles  from  there,  and  Grodek,  as  every  officer  in 
the  fortress  knows,  still  in  Russian  hands. 

A  hut  flew  a  plain  yellow  flag,  warning  of 
cholera  within.  To  the  south  a  captive  balloon 
lurched  upward  like  some  blind,  gigantic  insect. 
Stark  white  walls  gleamed  under  it,  surrounding 
what  once  had  been  a  convent.  Razed  now  ex- 
cept for  the  high  gate  and  one  mute  cross,  that 
deed  in  holy  Austria  must  have  been  some  strain, 
and  yet  —  what  wonder  is  it  that  with  each  bel- 
ligerent in  Europe  beseeching  the  same  God  to 
throttle  his  enemy,  War  should  not,  as  It  does, 
look  cynically  upon  Him? 

The  next  hail  to  my  campaign  hat  came  from  a 
cart  covered  like  a  prairie  wagon.  Inside,  in 
stocking  feet  and  underclothes,  a  husky  young 
Lieutenant  of  engineers  was  eating  a  breakfast 
of  ham  and,  since  in  civil  life  he  was  a  business 
man  in  England,  Scotch  whisky.  The  drink  he 
poured  me  tasted  after  weeks  in  beery  Austria 
as  would  a  mango,  say,  to  an  Arctic  traveller. 
We  did  not  speak  of  surrounding  battles,  because 
a  matter  of  far  deeper  moment  obsessed  his  mind. 
He  sought  in  me,  as  an  American,  a  vicarious  link 
of  sentiment.     Shyly  Lieutenant   Karl   Hoffman 


loo  FIVE  FRONTS 

drew  from  his  dunnage  an  unposted  letter,  ad- 
dressed: Miss  Helen  Reese,  1300  North  Cal- 
vert Street,  Baltimore.  They  will  be  married, 
d.v.,  next  spring.  In  case  the  missive  never 
reaches  her,  Miss  Reese  should  know  that  her  be- 
trothed's  new  beard  becomes  him  very  much. 

Onward  in  the  watchmaker's  cart,  freeing  our- 
selves of  the  swarming  camp,  to  bump  across  the 
railway  at  the  station  of  Hermanovice.  No 
earthquake  ever  wrought  a  neater  job  than  dyna- 
mite in  that  village;  none  could  have  so  nicely 
piled  the  red  roof  tiles  into  heaps.  Beyond  the 
bare  plain  again,  and  over  its  eastern  hills  the 
dull  reverberations  now  made  you  wait  to  speak 
between  them.  Suddenly  before  us  scampered 
past  three  fleet,  four-footed  creatures,  two  wild 
deer  and  a  doe.  The  hates  of  man  spared 
not  even  them;  war  was  crumbling  the  card  house 
of  life  even  into  the  depths  of  the  wild;  Nature  in 
her  last  hidden  nerve  protested  its  oneness.  And 
yet  —  there  was  an  obverse  to  the  shield.  Thou- 
sands of  men  here  were  scattered  in  the  faint 
earth  mist,  all  with  rifles,  and  in  the  final  reckon- 
ing the  defence  of  Przemysl  may  depend  upon 
meat,  yet  not  a  single  shot  rang  out,  not  a  gun 
was  levelled  at  those  fragile,  fearsome  antlers. 
For  miles  those  poor  fugitives  were  the  safest 
warm-blooded  creatures.  You  seemed  to  face  a 
miracle,  till  you  remembered  that  all  soldiers  here 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     loi 

were  peasants  trained  to  kill  men  as  an  art,  but 
to  hold  as  an  arch  crime  in  this  land  of  overlords 
the  sportive  act  of  poaching. 

Toward  lo  o'clock  we  quit  our  wagons  for 
good,  at  a  stream  skirting  the  first  hills.  A  new 
pile  bridge,  replacing  that  burnt  by  the  Russians 
in  their  first  siege,  bore  the  steady,  clock-like 
tramp  of  infantry  bound  toward  the  noisome 
shrapnel,  now  seen  raising  its  chemical.  Imitation 
little  clouds  into  the  cirrus  of  the  perfectly  cleared 
day.  "  Fresh  troops,"  remarked  Michl,  yet  on 
halting  a  man  or  two  would  sink  prone  upon  the 
blanket  coiled  over  his  hairy  knapsack.  Followed 
a  train  of  field  kitchens  — "  gulas  agyu,"  called  in 
the  Hungarian  ranks  —  with  their  black  pipe 
stacks.  On  a  hill,  a  man  with  a  plane-table  was 
working  out  angles  of  fire-control  to  guide  some 
invisible  battery  through  one  of  the  army's  nerves, 
the  sheaf  of  telephone  wires  converging  to  a  bare 
tree  across  the  creek.  A  regiment  of  reserves 
on  a  near  slope  sat  patterned  like  a  human  carpet, 
intent  and  quiet  as  the  dead-heads  outside  a 
world's  series  ball-game. 

Nearer,  a  company  commander  addressed  his 
men  swinging  out  to  battle,  and  you  could  hear 
the  "Hoch!  Hoch!  Hur-rahf"  that  greeted  his 
harangue.  Where  we  waited  for  them  to  pass, 
two  bearded  privates  were  fitting  a  stove  down  in 
the  smooth  mud-yellow  depths  of  a  new  bomb- 


102  FIVE  FRONTS 

proof,  chatting  as  unconcerned  as  the  card-men 
who  painted  the  trees  at  the  Duchess's  croquet 
party.  A  sergeant  up  on  the  bank  was  chasing  a 
collie  dog,  and  shouting  — "  Oberleutenant  Hein- 
rich  —  Hier !  hier !  " 

But  we  were  swept  on  from  them,  with  the  for- 
ward pulse  of  life,  in  wake  of  that  last  infantry. 
Over  the  bridge  the  road  passed  a  whitewashed 
cottage.  Beyond,  a  troop  of  red  trousered  Hus- 
sars, in  their  archaic  flat-topped  helmets,  envel- 
oped us  on  the  gallop.  From  a  ditch  came  the 
third  salute 

"You  —  American!  " 

This  time,  it  was  a  skinny-limbed  young  tailor 
with  no  teeth,  who  had  worked  for  two  years  in 
New  York  and  Philadelphia.  And  his  was  the 
same  story:  visiting  parents  in  Cracow,  no  pass- 
port, helpless  impressment  into  the  army. 

"  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  have  come  back,"  said 
he  listlessly,  "  if  I  had  known." 

"  About  the  war  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  this  country  — "  he  amazed  me. 
Something  mute  in  his  black  eyes,  furtive  in  the 
quiver  of  his  hands,  stirred  my  pity.  "  It's  all 
so  —  so  filthy." 

"  But  the  outdoor  life,"  I  found  myself  speak- 
ing as  to  a  child,  "  is  more  healthy  than  tailoring, 
don't  you  think?  " 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  weary  sigh.     "  Yes. 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     103 

But  it  does  no  good  —  all  that,"  with  a  shrug  and 
waving  one  hand  toward  the  waxing  battle.  "  It 
does  no  good,  not  to  no  one." 

I  could  as  easily  have  cheered  a  man  already 
dying.  These  encounters  were  getting  on  my 
nerves.  And  yet  I  would  have  quit  sight  of  a 
bayonet  charge  not  to  miss  them ;  they  were  mak- 
ing the  day.  Only  in  these  places,  under  this 
stress,  could  I  have  so  glimpsed  the  hearts  of  such 
fellow  citizens,  for  otherwise  and  otherwhere  we 
should  have  passed  without  a  word. 

Soon  thatched  farms  lined  the  road,  its  mud  a 
foot  deep.  In  one  yard  where  a  woman  in  a 
yellow  hood  calmly  was  mending  her  wellsweep, 
soldiers  were  digging  trenches,  and  beyond,  the 
great  15  cm.  guns  of  a  battery  stood  over  the 
arched,  black,  mouths  of  their  bombproofs.  We 
had  passed  them  hardly  a  rod,  could  look  back 
down  their  up-pointed  muzzles,  when  they  leaped 
into  action.  Straight  over  our  heads,  as  we 
caught  ourselves  from  reeling,  rushed  a  mighty 
geyser  of  deafening,  steely  vibration.  A  grey 
haze  floated  from  the  pieces,  languidly  settling 
back  on  their  trucks;  but  the  woman's  head  had 
remained  poked  down  her  well.  We  were  be- 
tween the  lines  at  last,  straight  under  the  contin- 
uous give-and-take  of  the  daily  artillery  duel, 
roaring,  screeching,  lacing  the  sky.  In  small 
danger  from  the  Austrian  batteries,  because  of 


104  FIVE  FRONTS 

their  raised  trajectory,  but  any  moment  meat  for 
the  Russian  shrapnel,  which  with  hardly  a  fainter 
pulse  and  whir  kept  spawning  its  hard  white  puffs 
over  the  yellow  birch  woods  and  lateral  ribs  of 
dark  juniper  scrub  on  the  hills  ahead. 

The  road  dipped  into  a  hollow,  a  yard  of  fresh 
graves  bulging  on  the  soil  to  the  right,  and  beyond 
a  grey  private  or  two  was  digging  with  sticks  in 
a  field  for  potatoes.  On  the  left,  as  we  mounted, 
soon  to  be  sighted  by  the  Russian  look-outs.  Cap- 
tain Michl  gave  the  order  for  taking  to  a  deep 
gully  by  the  wayside.  The  road  now  was  utterly 
deserted. 

"  Right  here,"  said  he,  ''  we  were  eight  days 
advancing  three  kilometres."  And  the  lines  of 
torn  trenches,  littered  with  broken  cartridge 
boxes,  that  ringed  the  slopes  scarcely  ten  feet 
apart,  attested  that.  Bloody  field  coats,  stained 
bandages,  shell  clips,  knapsacks,  lay  in  the  ditch, 
from  which,  every  time  we  raised  heads  on  our 
shoulders,  the  Captain  would  warn  — "  Mr. 
Denn!  (my  name  as  the  Austrian  officer  grasps 
it).  Keep  down  you'  head,  or  the  Russisches 
will  see  you." 

A  biplane  came  strumming  out  from  Przemysl, 
straight  toward  the  Russians'  fire,  plainly  to  spy 
on  their  artillery  positions.  Instantly  the  salvoes 
from  them  — "  we  "  fired  single  shots  now  — 
concentrated  upon  It,  and  rooted  us  in  our  tracks, 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     105 

watching  this  one-sided  duel  in  the  air.  Globes 
of  magically  formed  vapour  spun  toward  those 
fragile  wings,  there  in  the  clear  sky,  like  foam  on 
a  stream.  Their  clatter  relaxed.  The  plane 
paused,  first  to  rise  from  that  deadly  fog,  then 
plunge  beneath.  It  hung  In  the  air,  so  that  you 
held  breath.  Somewhere  broke  In  the  gutter-gut- 
ter of  a  machine-gun.  Then,  whether  In  fear  or 
prudence,  having  slivers  of  steel  in  silk  and  pilot, 
or  with  its  brave  purpose  won,  the  bird  presently 
dipped  far  to  port,  and  banked  away  with  a  de- 
fiant clatter  of  cylinders,  back  toward  the  fort- 
ress. 

One-man  rifle  pits  began  to  notch  the  gully, 
and  a  kilometre  found  us  emerging  before  a  tum- 
ble-down shack,  a  field-surgeon's  head-quarters. 
Here  a  very  blonde  young  doctor  and  three  or- 
derlies, eating  dinner  off  a  stump  by  a  heap  of 
rusty  rifle-clips,  forbade  us  to  go  further  on  the 
road;  there  was  no  cover  beyond,  and  Instantly 
we  would  draw  the  Russian  fire.  From  an  Aus- 
trian battery  hidden  near  we  could  hear  the  fitful 
zing!  of  primers  testing  out  a  breech.  We  heated 
our  canned  goulash  and  made  tea  on  a  mud  stove 
in  the  hovel,  which  had  neither  beds  nor  chairs, 
but  fourteen  gay  religious  pictures  In  a  frieze 
around  the  logs. 

Outside,  we  joined  the  surgeon  to  eat.  Stiff 
and  brooding  from  the  first,  he  kept  staring  into 


io6  FIVE  FRONTS 

his  tin  cup,  stroking  his  thin  beard.  Down  the 
road  loped  four  long-coated  soldiers  carrying  a 
stretcher,  but  the  fellow  under  the  grey  blanket 
was  leaning  on  his  elbow,  smoking.  Two  photo- 
graphers of  our  party  arrived,  and  began  to  quar- 
rel because  one  had  forged  ahead  of  the  other. 
But  our  host  never  smiled,  and  kept  muttering  in 
a  low  voice  to  Michl,  whose  jaw  twitched  a  bit. 

Michl's  face  is  strong  for  a  poet's,  and  though 
heavy,  large-browed  and  fine.  But  since  we  had 
reached  here,  and  I  had  seen  him  peer  behind  an 
out-house,  he  had  been  silent  and  gloomy.  From 
that  direction  all  at  once  came  a  low,  moaning 
sound.  I  got  up  for  a  look  behind  the  shed,  and 
the  sight  there  sufficed. 

A  middle-aged  soldier  with  a  Roman  nose,  and 
on  his  mud-daubed  uniform  the  two  green  tas- 
sels of  a  sharp-shooter,  was  lying  face-down  on  a 
grey  blanket.  Muttering  to  himself,  he  gasped 
every  now  and  then,  raising  his  head  turtle-fash- 
ion, with  a  tremor  of  the  whole  body,  and  plung- 
ing his  hands  downward  from  his  chest.  The 
skin  of  his  face  was  greenish,  horrible. 

"  Cholera,"  said  Michl,  softly,  whose  eyes  had 
been  following  me.  "  He  is  dying."  The  young 
doctor  quitted  his  meal  with  the  abruptness  of  one 
suddenly  seasick. 

The  fellow  sprawled  there,  between  that  shed 
and  a  moss-damp  fence,  the  place  to  throw  rusty 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     107 

cans  and  wire  —  a  human  being  in  his  last  throes. 
Once  he  seemed  singing  to  himself.  His  voice 
would  mount  from  a  mumble  into  falsetto,  and 
with  dreadful,  panting  intakes  reach  a  revolting 
pitch. 

"Ay-ay  .  .  .  Yi-yi-yi  .  .  .  E  —  eee!" 

He  rolled  on  his  back,  as  with  the  will  of  one 
In  frenzy,  but  could  only  feebly  rub,  and  rub,  and 
rub,  his  stomach. 

"  Why  —  why  don't  they  move  him  some- 
where? "  I  asked  Michl,  back  at  our  food. 

"  What  use  ?  We  can't  take  enough  carts  out 
here,  haven't  enough  men  for  the  stretchers.  The 
living  first.  He'll  be  —  done,  in  an  hour.  Let's 
get  out  of  this."  Michl  rose.  Already  the  pho- 
tographers had  gone  into  the  house. 

Just  then  a  huge,  glazy  motor-car  whizzed 
down  the  road  so  "  dangerous  "  for  us.  A  gloss 
of  furs,  a  gleam  of  scarlet  chevrons,  the  flash  of  a 
helmet,  and  the  car  was  gone.  But  one  face  of 
the  three  in  it  I  had  caught :  hard  high  cheekbones 
like  mahogany,  and  a  waxed  grey  moustache. 

"  There's  transportation  now,"  I  said. 

"  That,"  gasped  Michl.  "  That.  Why  it  is 
our  Emperor's  Cousin,  the  Prince  Leopold  Sal- 
vatorl  " 

"  And  terribly  late  for  his  dinner,  isn*t  he?  " 

The  noisome  afternoon  was  no  longer  young. 
Back  we  ducked  through  the  ditch,  and  crossed 


io8  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  road  south,  past  the  graveyard,  and  to  the 
base  of  the  tiers  of  trenches.  Here  were  two 
"  general  "  graves,  each  marked  by  a  cross  of 
birch  with  the  bark  on,  stacked  rifles  muzzle-down 
in  the  ground,  one  pair  hung  with  a  bugle  the  other 
with  a  cartridge  belt.  Indelible  pencil  related 
upon  one  of  the  cross-pieces  whittled  flat : 

JNRJ 

Hier  Ruhn  mit  Gott  17  Man  vom  Lir.  No.  21  und 
Lir.  No.  13  riiht  samft. 

We  wanted  to  mount  the  hill,  for  over  its  brow 
the  song  and  roar  of  Russian  shrapnel  was  too 
loud  for  the  few  woolly  clouds  leaping  into  view. 
Surely  they  were  shooting  lower  up  there,  search- 
ing out  at  close  range  a  battery  nearer  than  the 
one  at  the  farm  passed  in  the  morning,  which  yet, 
shooting  granaten  and  not  shrapnel,  kept  up  its 
single  ze-eeing  challenge. 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Michl.  "  But  do  not  go 
beyond  those  shelters."  He  pointed  to  a  long 
huddle  of  them  against  the  horizon,  deserted, 
roofed  with  timber  over  ruined  mud  walls;  and 
turning  his  back,  made  off  toward  the  farm. 

For  the  first  time  we  felt  free,  and  started  up- 
ward on  the  run,  leaping  the  crumbling  earth- 
grooves,  with  their  sodden  ruck  of  dead  men's 
trappings.  Pale  flowers,  like  tiny  primroses, 
bloomed  close  on  the  black  earth.     Over  the  ex- 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     109 

ploding  clouds  an  eagle  was  poised,  as  if  a  gale 
were  blowing  from  them  and  he  were  joyously 
breasting  it.  Crosses  were  stuck  wherever  the 
earth  was  fresh  around  the  bombproofs ;  and  they, 
straw-lined,  wrecked  and  riddled,  could  not  have 
spoken  louder  of  death  if  the  corpses  had  been 
bare.  Beyond,  we  crept  down  a  slant  toward  a 
very  madness  of  day-fireworks  and  sound. 

The  battery  seemed  less  than  three  kilometres 
away,  behind  the  line  of  birchwoods  topping  the 
next  rise.  Pale,  winking  flashes  strung  in  dots 
between  the  shadowy  tree  trunks.  Above,  the 
expanding  snowy  balls  might  have  been  curdled 
fragments  of  some  white  thunder-head,  hurled 
downward  between  us  and  the  yellow  groves. 
Many  expired  not  three  hundred  yards  away; 
some,  likely  ill-timed,  spewed  a  flock-like  vapour, 
lazily,  along  the  dank  grass.  A  spectacle  trans- 
fixing, before  thought  of  flight  or  danger  could 
supervene. 

"  Hi  —  hi!  Was  machen  sie  hier  ?  "  came  a 
shout  behind. 

Up  the  slope  from  the  right  ran  an  ungainly 
under-officer,  shocked  and  breathless.  Sight  of 
our  black-and-yellow  brassards  softened  his  anger 
that  we  should  be,  as  we  had  hoped,  directly  in 
the  line  of  fire  between  two  opposed  batteries;  and 
he  led  us  down  the  hill,  straight  into  the  muzzles 
of  the  well-hid  Austrian  pieces  that  the  Russian 


no  FIVE  FRONTS 

fire  was  searching  out;  there  to  square  ourselves 
with  his  superiors. 

Easy  enough;  they  not  even  asked  for  our 
papers ;  that  we  were  here  proved  our  permission 
to  men  of  the  firing-line.  Not  their  job,  as 
trained  soldiers,  and  the  first  I  had  met  in  Aus- 
tria, to  question  and  suspect.  They  greeted  us 
with  unreserved  joy,  friends  ready-made,  through 
pride  in  their  authority  and  responsibility;  through 
the  professional  fighter's  native  simplicity,  which 
Is  the  same  the  world  over. 

"  We  do  not  yet  fire,"  explained  a  snub-nosed 
lieutenant,  "  because  the  enemy  not  yet  have 
found  us." 

"  Probably  they  will  not  find  us,"  said  a  cap- 
tain, who  wore  a  raw-hide  jacket  embroidered  as 
If  by  our  Indians,  "  unless  they  have  seen  you  up 
there.  But  our  turn  to  shoot  is  soon,  and  then 
you  must  go  back." 

"  Your  turn?  "  we  asked. 

"  Our  move.  It  Is  like  a  game,  this  battle  of 
positions.     A  chess-game." 

They  had  been  here  eight  days.  The  largest 
bombproof  behind  the  rank  of  six  stubby  howit- 
zers had  "  Villa  Erdloch  "  pricked  out  with  brass 
geschosskappen  on  the  mud  of  its  roof.  Every 
man  was  fit,  bronzed,  eager.  You  felt  the  con- 
trast to  the  stout,  self-important  tradesmen  mas- 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE      in 

querading  in  uniforms  of  the  Stieber,  to  the  ele- 
gant graf-lings  with  diamond  bracelets  one  sees 
on  Vienna  streets.  Countries  looking  for  neu- 
trals' press-sympathy  should  let  reporters  mingle 
with  the  real  men  who  do  the  real  fighting  —  not 
herd  them  with  chocolate  soldiers  miles  from  the 
lines  —  if  they  want  partisans.  They  would  get 
them. 

An  orderly  came  up  the  slope  and  dumped  a 
pile  of  newspapers  and  letters  on  the  ground,  the 
first  mail  received  for  a  week.  It  was  ignored 
while  we  stayed  there.  The  officers,  joking  and 
chattering,  delighted  in  making  their  men  snap  the 
gun's  breech-locks,  load  for  us.  They  asked  us 
the  news  of  the  world,  and  as  the  genial  grey 
Hauptmann  finally  shooed  us  away,  the  Magyar 
painter  in  our  party  was  repeating  for  the  third 
time  how  Hungary  was  at  last  free  — "  Ungarn 
ganz  frei" —  of  Russians. 

We  followed  the  telephone  line,  strung  on  thin 
6-foot  sticks,  down  the  hill,  past  the  graves,  and 
took  the  road  to  the  battery  at  the  farm.  Still  at 
intervals  it  ripped  out  its  blast  that  made  a  sheet- 
metal  sounding-board  of  the  skies.  A  voice  from 
the  'phone  in  one  of  the  pits  arched  with  galvan- 
ized steel  and  sandbags  called  out  the  fire-control 
figures.  One  of  the  tiptoe  crew,  twisted  the 
sights;  others  shovelled  in  the  shell  with  no  twirl 


112  FIVE  FRONTS 

of  a  time-fuse,  for  they  were  shooting  granaten. 
Some  hand  yanked  at  a  cord  —  the  sole  fist  in 
sight  not  pressed  to  an  ear. 

But  suddenly,  as  if  the  throbbing  shell  we  last 
fired  had  struck  a  wall  in  the  ether,  bounded  back 
over  us,  pale  flashes  tangled  the  woods  on  the 
rise  close  behind.  The  Russians  at  last  had 
spotted  our  position.  Instantly  the  stout  captain 
by  the  guns  gave  an  order,  and  the  crew  ducked 
into  the  caverns.  I  walked  over  to  him  and  asked 
why  we  had  stopped  shooting. 

"  Why?  "  blurted  he.  "  Another  shot  of  ours, 
and  they  may  see  to  drop  their  fire  straight  on 
us." 

The  game  was  clear  then.  Some  position, 
which  we  had  been  shelling  all  day,  at  length  had 
found  ours.  Check  and  counter-check.  It  was 
the  Russians'  move  now,  and  our  cue,  since,  un- 
harmed, they  had  found  us,  to  keep  still  and  not 
be  put  out  of  action. 

They  were  firing  salvoes  of  granaten,  in  threes, 
at  about  five  minute  intervals.  Came  a  vibrant, 
invisible,  whirring  crescendo;  the  roar  of  explo- 
sions, and  in  the  field  at  the  corner  of  the  grove, 
a  fountain  of  inky  soil.  Thirty,  forty,  feet  or 
more  it  kicked  up;  and  soon  invariably  in  the 
same  spot,  not  fifty  yards  beyond  us.  The  shots 
were  bunched  perfectly;  the  deflection  was  exact. 


FROM  FORTRESS  INTO  BATTLE     113 

for  a  hair's  lowering  of  the  range  would  have 
wiped  us  out  clean. 

A  grey  group  of  reserves  under  a  big  empty 
straw  rick  began  to  shout  and  scuttle  out  to  the 
road.  For  me  the  moments  raced;  in  the  spaces 
between  the  ear-splitting,  thumping  roars,  I  stood 
breathless,  trying  to  count  the  salvoes,  and  keep 
my  mind  off  the  inviting  darkness  of  the  arched 
proofs.  I  think  that  eight  fell,  filling  a  good  half 
hour,  anyway,  before  they  ceased.  I  did  not  re- 
member it  till  afterwards,  and  then  somewhat 
guiltily,  but  during  that  time  my  unseeing  eyes  had 
been  fixed  upon  this :  The  woman  in  the  yellow 
hood  under  the  empty  rick.  In  her  short  skirt 
and  high  leather  boots  she  had  never  once  stopped 
feeding  straw  into  a  hay-cutter.  And  all  the  time 
her  little  girl  in  a  red  dress,  with  a  pig-tail  down 
her  back,  equally  nerveless,  undismayed,  was 
working  the  handle  of  their  rude  machine. 

"  They  have  lost  our  location,"  grinned  the  big, 
clean-shaven  captain  as  I  walked  out  to  the  road, 
bound  for  the  watchmaker  and  his  cart  across  the 
creek.  "If  they  begin  on  the  same  range  to- 
morrow, they  will  not  find  us  here.  We  move 
early  up  the  road." 

The  moon  was  growing  silvery  In  the  early 
dusk.  A  dragoon  came  out  of  a  long  red  build- 
ing, a  cavalry  stable,  under  the  grove  where  the 


114  FIVE  FRONTS 

first  shells  had  struck.  One  had  wrecked  the  roof 
and  killed  three  horses,  he  said. 

A  youth  driving  a  field  kitchen  hailed  me,  in 
English.  William  Krasnik,  he  was,  with  the 
usual  tale :  "  Home  "  for  three  months  without 
his  "  papers."  But  I  am  glad  I  got  his  name,  for 
his  case  was  different  —  slightly. 

"  Where  from  in  the  States?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  didn't  say  States,"  grinned  he,  "  nor  how 
my  papers  was  American." 

"What,  then?" 

"  From  Red  Wing,  Alberta." 

We  gossiped  a  while  of  the  free,  northern 
wheat  country,  before  the  anomaly  hit  me.  From 
the  Saskatchewan  to  the  San.  From  plough  to 
goulash  kitchen.  War  made  anything  possible, 
even  a  Canadian,  a  subject  of  Britain,  happy  in 
her  enemies'  ranks. 


IV 


DEAD  RADYMNO 


What  one  writes  for  publication  of  life  in 
Przemysl  must  be  shorn  of  military  verbiage,  even 
of  statements  too  strikingly  human.  Small  de- 
privation; for  one  becomes  most  concerned  with 
the  trivialities  of  his  own  existence.  You  may 
swear  that  you  feel  no  dread  of  cholera,  since  vac- 
cination has  reduced  its  mortality  from  90  per 
cent,  to  7  per  cent.;  but  your  diminishing  supply 
of  alcohol  to  boil  water  for  washing  hands  and 
face  grows  to  be  almost  an  obsession.  You  spend 
half  a  morning  trying  to  buy  chloride  of  lime  for 
disinfection.  Just  now,  at  last  returning  with 
some  to  treat  my  hotel,  the  Grand  Lipowicz,  two 
private  soldiers,  who  saw  a  cigar  sticking  out  of 
a  pocket,  tried  to  grab  it  from  me,  and  only  re- 
tired, sheepish  and  saluting^  when  I  told  them  that 
it  came  from  the  officers'  mess. 

But  yesterday  (November  2)  a  Lieutenant 
whispered  an  offer  of  diversion.  We  were  sit- 
ting, of  course,  in  the  spacious  Cafe  Stieber,  al- 
ways so  crowded  with  reluctant  uniforms.  A 
month  of  Austrian  cafes  —  where  one  must  beg 
on  his  knees  for  anything  except  coffee  and  cold 

"5 


ii6  FIVE  FRONTS 

water  —  and  the  habits  they  Inspire  have,  paren- 
thetically, given  me  a  brilliant  tactical  idea.  The 
coffee-house  of  the  dual  Empire  is  a  profound 
expression  of  her  military  genius.  It  solves  the 
problem  of  how  to  kill  the  Austrian  officers'  worst 
enemy,  time.  To  keep  Przemysl  from  being  suc- 
cessfully invested,  there  should  be  built  all  around 
it,  outside  the  fortifications,  a  complete  chain  of 
coffee-houses.  No  Russian  army  could  ever  clear 
them  of  its  enemies'  gay  uniforms. 

Would  I  go  to  Radymno  in  the  morning, 
northward  on  the  Jaroslav  Road,  and  hardly  six 
miles  away?  Even  then,  through  the  magnetic 
walls  of  the  Stieber,  you  could  hear  the  cannonad- 
ing in  that  direction.  And  Przemysl  offered  no 
thrill  more  exciting,  now  that  all  inhabitants  with 
less  than  three  months'  food  have  been  sent  away 
and  provision  stores  show  empty  shelves,  than 
sneaking  into  a  cukernia  by  the  side-door  and  eat- 
ing chocolate  cakes  —  the  Galician  idea  of  a 
"  speak-easy  " —  which  are  contraband,  as  is  all 
food  for  sale. 

At  eight  in  the  morning  our  car  untangled  it- 
self from  the  ceaseless  lines  of  troops,  peasants, 
supply  carts  passing  through  the  city,  and  we 
crossed  the  River  San  by  the  cantilever  bridge. 
On  that  side,  a  steep  slope  leads  to  the  fortifica- 
tions, past  the  Tennis  Club  and  K.  u.  K.  Epidemle- 
spital.     We  had  met  but  one  dead  horse  by  the 


DEAD  RADYMNO  117 

time  we  reached  a  timbered  hill,  being  logged  to 
make  a  glacis.  For  an  instant  here  one  might 
have  been  in  our  own  Northwest ;  even  the  gullies 
all  about  were  filled  with  lopped  branches;  this 
to  entangle  an  enemy  in  attack.  At  the  inner  cir- 
cle of  zigzag,  barbed  wire  fences,  two  little  huts, 
having  gun-ports  and  sides  all  thatched  with  wil- 
low withes,  blocked  the  road.  In  a  mile,  at  the 
outer  circle,  we  slipped  cartridge  clips  into  our 
rifles,  and  the  Lieutenant  consulted  volubly  — 
but  returned  reassured  —  with  a  sallow  sentry. 
Here  the  slope  on  both  sides  swept  up  to  the  hid- 
den fortifications,  and  the  field  telephone  to  the 
outlying  batteries  and  trenches  stalked  forward 
across  desolate  levels  on  its  little  poles.  Soon  to 
the  right  appeared  the  hangars  of  the  aviation 
field,  and  we  passed  a  Red  Cross  station,  a  long 
hut  half  underground,  completely  walled  and 
roofed  with  sod. 

After  two  miles,  suddenly,  not  a  human  being 
was  in  view.  We  had  no  idea  how  close  the  Rus- 
sian lines  were,  and  so  got  out  and  walked  a  while, 
keeping  our  heads  well  below  the  banked  sides  of 
the  road,  until  we  sighted  a  distant  group  of  Aus- 
trian sappers,  and  returned  for  the  car.  On  the 
way  forward  again,  we  met  two  women  peasants, 
one  of  whom,  in  a  vivid  blue  hood,  assured  us 
that  there  were  no  Russians  close  to  Radymno; 
and  soon  it  seemed  that  we  were  surrounded  by 


ii8  FIVE  FRONTS 

peasants  working  in  their  bleak  fields,  intent,  un- 
seeing, poignantly  summarising  what  had  long 
been  for  me  an  inner  meaning  of  this  war. 

This  was  the  unconcern  of  these  Slav  peasants, 
their  terrible,  tragic  indifference  to  any  fighting. 
There  they  bent,  old  men,  older  women  in  short 
flaring  skirts  and  high  knee-boots,  digging  their 
small  potatoes  —  digging  as  against  Judgment 
Day,  with  short-handled  hoes,  shaped  more  like 
axes,  the  last  crop  to  be  taken  from  this  soil,  from 
which  their  blood  has  sprung;  the  last  for  years, 
forever?  Never  did  one  look  up  from  his  toil, 
in  those  fields  all  seamed  with  rifle-pits,  either  at 
the  scattered  sentries,  each  standing  in  the  smoke 
of  his  underground  fire  with  only  a  bayonet  pro- 
truding from  his  mufiled  hood;  at  the  loping 
stragglers  along  the  road,  bearded  youths  in 
dusty,  baggy  grey;  at  our  lone  motor  car;  nor  did 
they  look  the  other  way  toward  the  continuous 
Russian  cannonading  just  beyond  the  railway  track 
where  it  crossed  our  road,  and  Radymno  on  the 
left. 

The  war  was  no  longer  young;  but  still  it 
seemed  no  affair  of  theirs.  ♦No  more  to  those 
gnome-like  spirits  of  the  soil  than  in  times  of 
peace  were  these  same  passing  horsemen,  or  any 
rich  man's  automobile.  Here  were  two  worlds 
which  even  war  had  failed  to  link;  two  worlds  on 
the  same  terrain  of  a  single  planet.     Yet  the  sons 


DEAD  RADYMNO  119 

of  those  peasants  could  then  have  been  fighting, 
dying.  What  of  it?  The  parents  might  hear 
some  day,  or  might  not.  It  was  a  fact  of  their 
dim  existence  to  be  accepted  with  the  same  fatal- 
ity as  drought  or  snow;  a  dispensation  far  less  vi- 
tal or  momentous  than  the  housing  of  a  crop,  or 
a  cow's  calving. 

Maybe  the  bleakness  of  everything  depressed 
us.  At  home,  even  we  have  no  November  days 
so  dark  and  dour,  damp  and  raw,  as  these  upon 
the  uplands  of  the  great  Baltic  plain.  It  was  not 
freezing,  but  the  icy  east  wind  searched  and  cut 
our  furs.  All  around  the  endless  avenue  of  pol- 
lard willows,  against  the  squat,  black  horizon, 
showed  the  occasional  great  dome  of  a  church  in 
the  prevailing  Polish  style;  and  everywhere  the 
roadside  crosses,  coloured  madonnas  in  their 
stucco  niches,  even  ikons  mounted  behind  glass 
under  the  thatched  eaves  of  cabins,  gave  one  that 
bewildering  sense  inseparable  from  any  European 
war-field,  of  the  combined  futility  and  persistence 
of  religion. 

We  passed  a  squalid  village,  empty  except  of 
red-trousered  dragoons,  stamping  their  feet 
around  straw  fires.  Two  furiously  pumped  the 
bellows  of  a  field  forge,  using  its  incandescent 
coals  as  a  campfire.  Towards  us  lurched  over  the 
hard  ruts  a  dilapidated  barouche  with  two  white 
horses,  driven  by  an  infantryman,  a  flopping  rifle 


I20  FIVE  FRONTS 

strapped  around  his  shoulder.  From  Its  covered 
depths  sprang  a  very  tall  officer  who,  after  a  few 
words  of  guttural  German,  caused  the  Lieutenant 
to  exclaim  to  me,  "  All  right !  " 

Still  onward.  To  the  right,  over  a  low  flange 
of  green  winter  rye,  waited  a  silent  battery  of 
field-guns,  the  men  invisible  in  their  subterranean 
proofs.  Suddenly  by  the  roadside  we  saw  the 
shell-shattered  face  of  what  once  had  been  a 
breadshop;  the  collapsed  roof  of  a  straw  rick;  a 
long  row  of  one-story  buildings  pockmarked  by 
machine-guns.  We  crossed  the  abandoned  rail- 
way tracks,  turned  to  the  left  on  the  Jaroslav 
Road,  as  it  forked  also  towards  Lemberg,  and 
got  out  of  the  machine,  well  within  the  village  of 
Radymno. 

In  France  I  had  seen  towns  much  like  It,  where 
the  quick  tides  of  assault  and  counter-occupation 
had  left  that  wreck,  sadder  than  combined  fire  and 
earthquake  make,  of  shrapnel,  bayonet,  and  loot- 
ing. But  Radymno  spoke  a  word  beyond  even 
that;  perhaps  because  of  the  ruder  flavour  of  this 
eastern  war,  of  its  desolation  In  a  land  always 
poorer,  of  the  fact  that,  although  Radymno  had 
been  demolished  for  weeks,  granaten  were  still 
whiffling  over  the  skeleton  of  it. 

Behind  the  leafless  birches  to  the  left,  a  few 
soldiers  lingered  In  the  gaping  door-ways  of  a 


DEAD  RADYMNO  121 

yellow  brick  barracks.  Ahead,  the  mud  that  had 
been  a  street  dipped  through  a  hollow,  then  up 
past  a  great  sandstone  church,  built  on  the  lines 
of  St.  Isaac's  in  Petrograd.  Telegraph  poles  lay 
split  and  prone,  amid  tangles  of  wire.  We  met 
a  soldier  or  two  mooning  along  on  duty,  and  of 
each  one  in  turn  the  Lieutenant  asked  the  number 
of  his  regiment. 

"  Achtzig,"  came  the  answers,  **Achtzig,  acht- 
ztg. 

Why  did  he  repeat  his  question  over  and  over  ? 
Every  one  had  the  same  red  oblong  on  his  grey 
collar.     Why  keep  on  making  certain? 

We  stopped  in  front  of  the  church.  The  in- 
habitants had  been  russophiles,  Ruthenians.  Cer- 
tainly the  structure  was  splendid  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  what  the  village  could  have  been; 
and  almost  unharmed.  In  the  central  dome,  on 
each  of  the  smaller  ones,  were  but  a  few  shell 
marks,  like  broken  blisters.  The  pediment  bore 
a  painting  in  yellow  distemper  of  Christ  and  St. 
Peter  sitting  tete-a-tete,  with  staffs  and  haloes. 
This  was  intact,  but  the  glass  of  the  transepts 
above  was  shattered.  Behind,  a  slope  fell  to  the 
sterile  plain,  bounded  within  less  than  a  mile  by 
woods,  where  behind  a  black  clump  of  spruces  the 
enemy's  invisible  battery,  in  action,  was  drawn  up. 
In  my  week  around  the  fortress,  this  was  the  near- 


122  FIVE  FRONTS 

est  I  had  been  to  one,  though  at  some  points  in- 
fantry outposts  had  been  reported  but  forty  paces 
apart. 

We  turned  through  the  main  street.  Not  a 
door  nor  window-sash  remained  in  any  house. 
Within  their  oblongs,  among  the  charred  walls 
and  naked  chimneys,  could  be  seen  no  recognisable 
belonging  of  home  or  shop.  Only  ashes,  sodden 
straw  where  horses  had  been  stabled,  twisted 
metal  things.  Here  before  a  door-way  was  a 
heap  of  brass  belt-buckles,  from  dead  Austrian 
soldiers  by  the  double  eagles  holding  the  globe 
and  sword  designed  on  each;  there,  a  litter  of 
bloodsoaked  underclothing,  a  heap  of  broken 
rifles,  warped  bayonets,  knapsacks.  From  torn 
cornices  reached  down  long  tentacles  of  tin  roof- 
ing, sometimes  draping  a  second-story  balcony. 
They  quivered  In  the  raw  wind  with  ghostly 
sounds,  and  regularly  as  the  shells  passed  over- 
head —  In  threes  now,  at  about  five-minute  inter- 
vals, giving  out  their  silky-metallic  waves  of  sound 
—  every  sliver  creaked  with  an  added  vigour. 
You  heard  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  glass  splinters  fall- 
ing, as  if  by  some  magic  out  of  the  terrible  pulsa- 
tions of  that  blank,  dark  sky. 

Now  not  a  human  being  was  In  sight,  as  we 
turned  Into  the  market  square.  And  in  such  a 
place  in  Galicia  life  usually  swarms,  with  cattle, 
basket-sided  carts,   and  the   booths   of  importu- 


DEAD  RADYMNO  123 

nate  Jews,  in  an  intensity  out  of  keeping  with 
the  size  of  a  village.  Where  had  they  all  gone? 
What  and  who  was  giving  them  food  and  shelter 
now,  in  this  lean  land?  The  houses  wrecked 
worst  invariably  bore  signs  in  Yiddish  characters. 
Still  standing  on  what  appeared  to  be  the  town 
hall,  was  a  high,  square  zinc  clock-tower,  with  the 
hands  on  each  of  its  four  faces  stopped  at  differ- 
ent hours. 

No  inhabitant  had  returned  here  out  of  senti- 
ment for  his  home,  or  to  hunt  for  possessions. 
There  was  no  more  danger  than  there  ever  is  un- 
der artillery  fire  like  this  —  the  same  chance  of 
being  hit  as  of  lightning  striking  you  in  a  heavy 
thunderstorm;  but  there  were  no  .possessions. 
Alone  untouched  by  any  shell,  a  sandstone  statue 
of  the  Virgin  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  square, 
behind  an  ugly  little  wrought-iron  fence.  Perched 
on  one  outstretched  arm,  she  held  a  tiny  and 
rather  bijou  Christ,  yet  with  a  very  living  gesture 
of  offering  Him. 

We  swung  to  the  right,  toward  the  Roman 
Catholic  church.  Its  walls  torn  by  shells,  but  the 
roof  not  caved  in.  In  front  of  it  was  a  wrecked 
bed  and  a  black  horse-hair  sofa,  with  beyond, 
lurking  along  under  cover  of  the  ruins,  the  sole 
civilians  we  saw  that  day  in  the  range  of  fire  — 
a  woman  hooded  in  black,  her  husband  in  his 
round  sheep  cap  and  splay  rawhide  coat,  their  son 


124  FIVE  FRONTS 

just  old  enough  to  walk.  I  wondered  if  the  fur- 
niture were  theirs.  But  they  seemed  not  to  no- 
tice it.  Instead,  like  a  ghost,  the  man  kept  turn- 
ing from  the  wall  to  gaze  at  the  wrecked  house 
on  the  corner,  where  on  a  balustrade  were  still 
two  imitation  century  plants,  topped  by  those  pea- 
cock-green glass  globes  that  you  see  in  all  Polish 
gardens.  The  wind  flapped  and  flapped  the  black 
sheeps'-wool  edging  of  his  coat  skirt,  and  the 
woman  would  tug  dazedly  at  her  high  boots. 

From  here  we  turned  back.  The  Jaroslav 
road  fell  into  open  country  again.  Across  it,  to- 
ward the  Austrian  battery  behind  us,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  railway,  the  Russian  shells  were 
falling.  They  were  covering  the  road,  of  course, 
guarding  the  approach  to  Jaroslav,  hardly  four 
miles  away.  Still,  I  was  willing  to  take  a  chance 
along  it,  remembering  the  identification  I  had  ob- 
tained from  the  Russian  secret  police  a  year  be- 
fore, in  case  of  capture.  But  naturally  the  Lieu- 
tenant had  no  such  optimistic  views. 

"  The  minute  we  show  our  heads  on  the  road," 
he  said,  *'  they  get  our  range  and  kill  us." 

"  But  we  can  go  like  h in  the  machine. 

Too  fast  for  them  to  hit." 

"  Not  in  the  mud.  I  would  not  try  that  for 
five  million  kronen.  They  would  fire  to  wreck  the 
road  before  and  behind  us,  so  we  are  caught  be- 
tween." 


DEAD  RADYMNO  125 

In  the  square  again  we  fell  in  with  a  young  sol- 
dier, who  had  a  pinched,  ashen  face.  He  dogged 
us,  continually  shifting  his  rifle  from  one  shoulder 
to  another,  pointing  out  houses  across  the  square 
—  one  particularly,  with  huge  stucco  pillars  rising 
straight  from  the  muck  —  and  muttering: 

"Cholera  I     Cholera!" 

"  In  them  still?  "  we  asked.  "  The  bodies  not 
buried  yet?" 

"  Ya,  ya."  And  he  kept  plucking  me  by  the 
arm,  to  follow  Into  one  of  those  charnels  which  so 
seemed  to  be  unnerving  him.  .  .  . 

All  at  once,  on  the  surrounding  shreds  of  roof 
and  crumbling  cornices,  broke  out  that  mysterious 
pick-pocking  of  machine-gun  fire  —  always  a  fur- 
tive, elusive  sound  at  first  —  which  I  had  not 
heard  since  August,  when  with  the  British  in 
France.  Up  to  then,  the  loudest  sounds  between 
the  cannonading  had  been  the  incessant  twittering 
of  a  horde  of  sparrows  carousing  in  the  deadly 
litter  of  that  empty  rynek. 

The  ravens,  always  circling  above,  never  ut- 
tered a  croak,  but  they  were  very  fat.  .  .  . 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they're  after?  "  I  said. 
"  The  dead  must  all  be  burled  deep  enough." 

"  Ought  to  be,"  gaped  my  Lieutenant. 

"  And  even  ravens  ought  to  have  some  re- 
serves. Of  instinct,  say,  against  cholera  —  pick- 
ings." 


126  FIVE  FRONTS 

"Let  —  let's  ask  them,  eh?"  with  an  uncanny- 
laugh. 

High  time  for  us  to  be  off.  Higher  time  that 
that  young,  ashen  soldier  should  be  relieved. 

We  cranked  and  climbed  into  our  car  for  the 
return  here  across  that  biting  desolation  • —  to  the 
Cafe  Stieber,  and  chloride  of  lime. 


PART  III 
IN  SERVIA 


THE  RETREAT  FROM  PRZEMYSL 

MiTROViTZ,  Slavonia  (Hungary),  November 
20. —  Forced  a  fortnight  ago  to  leave  Przemysl, 
one  makes  an  Odyssey  through  Hungary,  and  at 
last  lands  in  Servia,  which  lies  just  across  the 
River  Save  from  here.  This  may  be  retrogres- 
sion in  a  military  sense,  yet  only  in  so  far  as  fol- 
lowing a  stream  to  its  source  is  that.  Forward 
now  lies  the  distracted  land  which  at  least  was  the 
physical  birthplace  of  the  world  war,  still  quiver- 
ing from  events  —  undercurrents,  in  its  surge  — 
never  yet  grasped  at  home. 

A  Red  Cross  train  of  four  engines  and  thirty 
cars  smuggled  us  out  of  the  fortress  after  dark. 
All  the  morning  to  the  northeast  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Jaroslav  the  cannonading  was  closer,  and 
louder  than  we  had  heard  it  for  a  week.  De- 
tonations seemed  to  shake  the  gilt  weather-vane 
of  the  Galician  arms  (a  bear  under  a  single  star) 
which  topped  the  ancient  tower  by  the  rynek. 
Here  the  same  wagon  train  that  had  been  creak- 
ing west  the  midnight  before  was  passing  in  the 
morning. 

Knots  of  long-coated  Jews  gathered  broodingly 
129 


I30  FIVE  FRONTS 

to  watch.  It  was  the  first  sunny  day  for  an  age 
in  that  fog-frosted  valley;  yet  that  same  elusive 
spell  of  coming  change  filled  the  air  that  I  had 
felt  in  certain  French  towns.  "  Only  strategic  — 
a  new  plan  —  two  army  corps  shifted,"  one  was 
told.  But  the  great  retreat  in  which  that  force, 
failing  to  join  with  von  Hindenburg,  was  sur- 
rounded and  lost,  had  begun.  And  we  were 
swept  along,  atoms  in  its  ruck. 

Far  away  now,  I  cannot  help  wondering 
whether  back  there  in  the  Cafe  Stieber  orders  are 
being  given  in  German  or  in  Russian  to-night. 

The  rails  to  Sanok  were  still  open.  With  the 
light  in  every  car  extinguished,  quite  as  If  we  were 
on  an  ocean  liner,  we  passed  mountainous  heaps 
of  flour  sacks  and  ammunition  boxes,  against 
the  siege  now  begun  and  likely  to  last  for 
months.  They  reached  almost  to  Hermanovice. 
From  there,  ruddy  campfires,  and  signal  lights 
that  you  watched  to  see  suddenly  extinguished, 
ringed  both  our  horizon  to  the  right  and  the  ene- 
my's to  the  left.  A  blazing  shack  close  to  the 
rails  slid  by.  Just  ahead,  between  Novi  Miasto 
and  Dobromil,  the  Russians'  positions  were  only 
three  miles  to  the  east,  and  that  very  afternoon  a 
supply  train  had  been  shelled  and  wrecked  exactly 
where  we  were  to  pass. 

There  was  a  low  moon,  entangled  in  a  seethe 
of  mists.     At  first  we  could  see  off  in  the  enemy's 


RETREAT  FROM  PRZEMYSL      131 

direction  only  to  the  flat  path  for  moving  heavy 
artillery,  rolled  by  some  great  machine  on  the 
black  ploughed  soil.  We  stopped  to  let  a  freight 
pass,  and  I  remember  watching  a  bearded  old 
Jew  hustle  furtively  out  of  a  boxcar  and  dash 
across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the  fortress. 
Here,  as  we  waited  out  on  the  track,  could  be 
heard  the  ceaseless,  nightly  drama  of  the  close-by 
trenches  —  the  scattering,  increasing,  diminishing 
rifle-fire.  Owing  to  some  distortive  quality  in  the 
thick  atmosphere,  it  sounded  like  the  mufiled  pi- 
ping of  innumerable  frogs  in  springtime. 

This  came  from  a  line  of  hills,  occasionally  out- 
lined through  the  fog,  where  two  days  before  I 
had  attended  a  field  mass  for  a  Tyrolese  regi- 
ment of  sharpshooters.  At  the  time,  such  a 
mingling  of  the  grim  and  the  theatric  had  had  a 
grotesque  quality;  but  standing  now  for  an  hour 
by  our  train,  listening  to  those  bearded  youngsters 
with  edelweis  in  their  hats  invisibly  testing  the 
worth  of  their  prayers,  that  ceremony  on  those 
ghostly  heights  assumed  a  new  reality. 

The  hills  then  had  been  naked  and  sodden,  ex- 
cept for  rows  and  rows  of  underground  burrows, 
warm  and  stinking  inside  with  brick  stoves  and 
straw  bunks;  for  pits  gouged  by  granaten  which, 
even  as  the  priest  arranged  his  vestments  in  a  lit- 
tle pine  board  hut  with  a  Christmas  tree  stuck 
over   it,   began   to   wail   and   whiffle    overhead. 


132  FIVE  FRONTS 

Down  the  slopes  came  the  soldiers,  twisting  in 
grey,  converging  lines,  massed  before  a  bench  cov- 
ered with  a  coarse  towel  on  which  was  a  framed 
portrait  of  the  Emperor  and  Empress  dressed  in 
the  fashions  of  i860;  a  great  layout  of  gold  and 
silver  medals  with  striped  ribbons;  a  thing  like  a 
baby's  silver  rattle,  and  a  heavy-topped  cologne 
bottle.  Beyond  the  priest  in  his  golden  stom- 
acher, a  red  and  blue  dragoon  stuck  his  sword 
into  the  soil  and  hung  his  helmet  on  it. 

The  service  began.  Rank  after  rank,  the  men 
knelt  languidly,  labouredly;  and  when  they  arose 
after  the  monotones  and  changing  keys  of  chanted 
responses,  hunched  up  their  knapsacks  and  kicked 
their  freezing  toes  into  the  hard  soil.  Irrever- 
ently I  asked  an  officer  why  they  had  no  choir  of 
yodlers,  only  to  learn  that  not  one  knew  how  to 
yodle  I  He  led  me  behind  the  throng,  where,  un- 
der a  black  and  yellow  imperial  flag  marked 
"  88,"  the  magnets  in  a  field  telephone  began  to 
squeak  and  stutter.  A  corporal  was  answering  in 
an  outraged  whisper.  The  officer  squatted  by  a 
comrade  on  the  steep  incline,  and,  blowing  his 
nose  with  a  handkerchief  that  gave  out  a  whiff 
of  heliotrope,  took  to  checking  up  the  regimental 
lists.  Then  a  lot  of  saluting  began,  ending  with 
a  general  but  meek,  "  Hip !  "  The  priest  rang 
something  like  a  dinner-bell,  and  began  his  ser- 
mon. 


RETREAT  FROM  PRZEMYSL      133 

"  Liebe  Kriegeskamaraden,"  I  caught  after  he 
had  hung  a  spruce  wreath  upon  the  Christmas 
tree.  He  rubbed  one  hand  on  his  gilded  belly, 
and  with  the  other  stilled  his  wind-blown,  tawny 
beard;  continuing  with  phrases  like,  "  Kaiser  und 
Vaterland  "— "  Tod  in  der  Schlacht."  The  pith 
of  it  was,  that  while  soldiers  in  the  field  wanted 
letters  from  home  above  anything,  he  was  there 
to-day  to  give  them  the  greatest  letter  of  all,  one 
from  God,  the  Bible.  His  assistant  in  a  purple 
stole  shifted  the  wreath  to  the  medals,  dipped  the 
rattle  into  the  bottle. 

The  General  took  the  holy  man's  place.  Sword 
superseded  cross,  signalised  by  a  lull  in  the  thun- 
der of  the  shells,  a  waving  of  the  former's  cocked 
hat,  and  a  stiffening  of  attention  all  around. 
The  General  was  a  fellow  with  eyes  of  a  usurp- 
ing blueness  and  rather  a  squat  nose  over  a  grey, 
square  beard.  At  a  short  command,  all  the 
sharpshooters  climbed  the  hill  ten  paces  higher. 
With  his  vigorous  words,  the  looks  of  meekness 
vanished  from  their  faces.  The  wind  flapped 
their  long  coats  and  capes,  no  more  toes  were  dug 
into  the  soil,  and  the  wagging  of  heads  from  side 
to  side  ceased.  The  General  was  coming  down 
to  cases. 

He  thrust  a  fist  upon  his  sword,  pulled  at  his 
close-cropped  black  moustache,  and  said  in  effect, 
waving  an  arm  in  one  direction:     "When  we 


134  FIVE  FRONTS 

met  the  Russians  yonder  they  did  not  give  us  time 
to  bury  our  dead.  Now  " —  shooting  a  hand  to 
another  quarter — "we  will  win  back  more 
ground  over  there,  and  bury  their  dead  for  them." 
The  windy  Ooo!  of  the  closest  shrapnel  yet,  put 
both  accent  and  period  to  the  challenge,  and  an 
aide  with  a  hooked  nose  stepped  quickly  to  the 
bench,  took  the  largest  gold  medal  (an  Iron 
Crown  of  the  Second  Class)  and  hung  it  around 
the  General's  neck.  '^  HochI  Hoch!"  split  a 
thousand  throats.  The  silver  medals  with  the 
red-striped  decorations  went  to  privates,  as  their 
names  were  called,  and  they  stepped  shyly  for- 
ward. Sometimes  no  voice  answered  a  name, 
and,  after  a  pause  —  each  as  it  came  set  my  throat 
tighter  —  the  murmur  would  run  around :  "  Ver- 
mundet" 

That  other  night  of  our  escape,  listening  to  the 
frog-like  piping  of  their  rifles,  one  felt  that  war 
itself  was  much  of  a  ceremony.  We  did  not 
move  on  until  midnight,  and  then  tore  so  fast  be- 
tween Dobromil  and  Novo  Miasto  that  I  had  no 
chance  either  to  see  the  wrecked  train  or  to  carry 
out  the  plan  long  in  my  mind  of  dropping  off  un- 
seen and  trying  to  make  the  Russian  lines.  But 
I  will  do  that,  yet.  Morning  found  us  stealing 
gingerly  over  jerry-built  trestles,  beside  great 
bridges  that  were  but  drooping  and  twisted  gir- 
ders.    In  the  night  three  men  aboard  had  died. 


RETREAT  FROM  PRZEMYSL      135 

An  Austrian  noble  had  charge  of  the  train,  but  not 
one  doctor  was  aboard. 

Long  trains  filled  with  landsturm  passed,  with 
mature,  bearded  faces,  men  laughing,  happy,  and 
waving  at  us  from  the  side-doors  of  their  boxcars. 
We  could  not  but  feel  veteran  and  experienced 
beside  them,  and  grasp  the  bright  and  homely  side 
of  war  that  was  to  be  theirs.  No  daylight  walk 
to  the  factory  with  dinner-pail  for  them,  nor  life 
ias  monotonous  as  the  machines  they  tended;  no 
more  routine  with  crops  and  cattle,  over-worked 
wife,  and  nagging  kids.  They  were  starting  on 
an  endless  vacation  with  their  pals,  like  an  indefi- 
nite strike,  with  plenty  of  food  and  without  a 
grievance.  They  were  headed  for  amazing  and 
romantic  adventures,  which,  since  they  would  go 
only  to  garrison  positions  already  captured,  in- 
volved no  danger,  but,  close  to  the  gossip  and 
thrill  of  war,  would  make  them  ever  after  heroes 
in  their  towns  and  villages. 

Next  morning  our  tally  of  dead  was  seven. 
So  blocked  was  the  railroad  that  we  had  not  yet 
covered  half  the  hundred  kilometres  back  to  New 
Sandec.  It  was  four  days  before  I  was  again  at 
the  army  headquarters,  in  the  little  Polish  hotel 
with  the  monkey-puzzler  in  the  window  of  the 
back  room,  contemplating  Servia,  across  the  snows 
of  the  Carpathians. 

And   this   journey   has   only   crystallised   into 


13^  FIVE  FRONTS 

a  final  understanding  the  inevitable  amazement 
of  any  traveller  through  the  Germanic  countries 
in  this  war.  Once  away  from  the  "  front,"  one 
has  continually  to  nudge  himself  to  believe  that 
the  great  conflict  is  a  reality.  At  home  we  do 
not  realise  how  militarism,  long  preparation  of 
the  popular  mind  for  war,  has  disciplined  and  dis- 
counted its  stress  and  excitement.  These  lands 
find  themselves  facing  the  tragedy  with  a  calm- 
ness and  self-control  easier  than  they  or  the  world 
can  have  anticipated.  Hungary,  though  only 
lately  ridden  of  the  enemy,  was,  except  for  the 
Red  Cross  trains  and  the  groups  of  reserves  ladel- 
ling  goulash  from  the  steaming  cauldron  in  each 
station  yard,  the  same  quiet  plain  of  maize  fields 
and  huge-skirted  peasant  women  that  it  is  in  times 
of  peace.  The  one  sinister  touch  lay  in  the  end- 
less way  of  anti-cholera  lime  along  the  tracks ;  and 
even  this  took  on  a  gaiety  by  its  whiteness  and 
the  figure  of  some  bright-jacketed  peasant  on 
every  platform,  swinging  a  watering-pot  that 
seemed  to  steam  out  milk. 

You  felt  that  Budapest  —  that  city  more  like 
New  York  than  any  capital  in  Europe  —  would 
receive  news  of  victory,  or  defeat,  with  an  equa- 
nimity to  shame  us,  were  we  at  war.  Parenthet- 
ically, that  likeness  almost  makes  one  home- 
sick; streets  and  populace  resolve  into  a  sort  of 
glorified  Sixth  Avenue,  and  the  signs  over  the 


RETREAT  FROM  PRZEMYSL      137 

shops  in  their  Roman-lettered,  oriental  tongue 
spell  into  sounds  exactly  like  our  college  yells.  A 
Jew  who  has  been  in  New  York  takes  you  aside 
in  a  book  shop,  furtively  trying  to  argue  that 
spring  will  see  the  Russians  there;  and  you  find 
the  American  Red  Cross  volunteers,  with  the 
bloom  off  their  first  enthusiasm,  since  they  are  al- 
lowed to  "  see  nothing,"  planning  to  give  up  the 
"  good  chance  to  see  the  war  "  that  has  inspired 
their  charity. 

Of  course,  in  the  Budapest  war  factories  were 
girls  condemned  to  filling  cartridges  and  bending 
the  stiff  tin  for  goulash  cans  at  a  pittance  a  day, 
just  as  ten  years  ago  I  saw  their  sisters  in  Japan 
sewing  sailors'  uniforms.  Perhaps  one  grows  in- 
sensitive, but  the  sameness  of  war  is  not  one  of 
its  minor  drawbacks  as  a  spectacle.  You  take  tea 
with  an  American  Countess,  in  what  might  be  an 
upper  West  Side  flat,  though  it  is  called  a  palace. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  Montana  copper  king, 
gossiping  with  girls  who  bear  the  name  of  a  cele- 
brated water  about  the  winter  clothing  of  their 
respective  husbands,  now  near  Cracow.  You 
wonder  why  it  should  be  conventional  to  pity  the 
fate  of  such  an  expatriate.  And  so  you  sail  to 
the  ancient  fortress  of  Peterwaradin,  just  above 
Belgrade  down  the  Danube,  which  is  beautiful, 
but  no  bluer  than  the  Mississippi,  which  it  much 
resembles. 


138  FIVE  FRONTS 

Here  again  one  was  in  the  war  zone.  In  the 
commonplace  of  uniforms  it  was  Galicia  once 
more,  except  that  white,  long-horned  oxen,  in- 
stead of  stubby  ponies,  drew  the  ceaseless  streams 
of  supply  carts  going  and  coming  from  the  front; 
and  leaves  still  clung  to  the  sycamores  of  a  fatter 
land.  Every  hour  through  the  night  sentries 
shouted  the  watchword,  mediaevally,  on  the  ram- 
parts of  the  fort.  By  day  you  were  proudly  led 
to  the  execution  place  of  Servian  spies  in  an 
abandoned  moat.  Not  even  in  brutal  Mexico  is 
one  reminded  why  certain  lines  of  bullet  holes 
against  a  wall  lie  at  slightly  varying  heights.  I 
felt  like  writing  a  letter  of  congratulation  to  Gen- 
eral Huerta.  But  down  in  the  river  the  West 
emerged  again  in  the  person  of  Capt.  Olaf  Wolff 
and  his  river  monitor,  which  has  likely  been  un- 
der more  continuous  fire  on  the  Save  and  Danube 
since  the  war  began  than  any  cruiser  of  the  high 
seas.  Yes,  Wolff  is  a  Hungarian-Norwegian, 
out-vying  any  hero  of  this  polyglot  empire:  the 
calm  sailor  type  with  the  crow's  feet  that  a  life 
of  mid-watches  etches  in  the  corners  of  each  eye. 
No  life  insurance  agent  would  have  taken  his  pre- 
mium, as  I  saw  him  off  yesterday,  to  run  again  the 
Servian  shore  batteries  near  Belgrade. 


II 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB 


Crnabara,  Servia,  November  25. —  I  have 
spoken  of  the  echoes  and  undercurrents  not  yet 
grasped  at  home,  to  be  gleaned  from  a  trip 
through  Servia,  the  brewing-place  of  all  these 
wars.  Well,  I  am  writing  in  a  Serb  schoolhouse 
— "  wrecked  "  is  too  bald  an  epithet  even  for  the 
work  of  God  and  the  spirit  of  man  in  this  amaz- 
ing land.  We  are  some  thirty  kilometres  within 
its  northern  border,  but  as  yet  have  heard  no 
echoes  and  felt  no  undercurrents.  We  shall  not. 
All  northwestern  Servia  appears  to  be  a  tomb. 
Outside  it  is  snowing  furiously  now.  Occasion- 
ally, under  the  pale  and  marching  gloom  across 
the  road  you  sight  great  pumpkins  gleaming  in  a 
trampled,  ungarnered  maize  field,  or  the  shrapnel- 
torn  branches  of  a  line  of  bare  acacias.  On  a  sol- 
dier's bunk  in  the  corner,  by  a  broken  plate  of 
black  honey,  the  Social-Democratic  "  journalist " 
from  Budapest  with  us  is  making  the  same  rat-like 
noises  in  his  throat  by  which  all  yesterday  he  sig- 
nalised his  satisfaction  at  a  poor  peasant  nation 
more  heartbreakingly  rended,  stamped  out,  de- 
serted, than  the  blackest  corner  of  France  or  Bel- 
gium. 

139 


I40  FIVE  FRONTS 

"  In  Servia  you  will  not  be  allowed  to  see  as 
much  of  the  fighting  as  around  Przemysl,"  said 
my  Oberleutenant  yesterday,  as  we  waited  for 
the  pontoon  bridge  across  the  Save  from  Mi- 
trovltz  to  fit  itself  together.  "  We  cannot  ap- 
proach the  firing  line.  The  Serbs  are  a  very 
treacherous  people.  They  have  poisoned  many 
of  our  soldiers.  Why,  last  week  when  Valjevo 
fell,  girls  and  women  threw  bouquets  of  flowers 
from  balconies  to  our  troops  marching  through 
the  streets.  Hidden  in  them  were  lighted 
bombs." 

"  How  despicable  a  revenge  I  "  I  said.  "  So 
unfair  for  a  nation  of  as  many  people  as  there  are 
in  New  York  city  to  wreak  on  great  Austria- 
Hungary.  And  to  think  that  everything  started 
—  all  this  world  war  —  in  a  quarrel  about  export- 
ing pigs." 

"  Pigs?  Ah,  yes,"  he  laughed.  "  The  export 
of  Servian  pigs  to  Hungary.  But  to  have  allowed 
Servia  a  port  on  the  Dalmatian  coast  would  have 
been  giving  it  to  Russia,  the  thing  England  kept 
her  from,  before  their  unnatural  alliance." 

"  So  hence,"  I  muttered,  "  the  assassination  and 
the  war." 

Innumerable  pigs  were  in  sight  —  a  great, 
shaggy-coated  throng,  rooting  among  the  bleak 
sloughs  of  the  Save,  outside  the  shell-torn  Servian 
Mitrovica,  herded  by  three  Croatian  peasants  in 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB        141 

round  black  caps  and  splay  rawhide  coats. 
Except  for  the  Austrian  landsturm  and  clouds 
of  carrion  crows,  these  swine  are  almost 
the  sole  forms  of  organic  life  that  I  have 
seen  for  two  days  in  a  rich,  once  peopled  corn- 
land,  curiously  like  our  own  Illinois.  It  has  been 
enough.  More  would  be  hard  to  behold  and  keep 
one's  gorge  in  hand. 

Thirty  miles  of  desolation,  glimpsed  through  the 
swirl  of  snow  or  drizzle;  and  in  all  that  area  to 
have  been  not  once  out  of  sight  of  a  sod  grave 
and  cross,  from  artillery  positions  that  were  but 
warrens  of  bomb-proofs  roofed  with  timber  and 
straw;  from  the  labyrinths  of  connecting  trenches 
strewn  with  the  wrack  of  the  dead's  equipment; 
from  shattered,  looted  farmhouses,  wrapped  in  a 
ghoulish  silence !  Between  this  village  and  the 
junction  of  the  Save  and  Drina  Rivers,  where  the 
fight  was  hardest  in  the  last  weeks  of  September 
and  the  first  of  October  —  some  120,000  en- 
gaged upon  each  side  —  I  counted  on  a  single 
battlefield  eight  lines  of  trenches,  few  more  than 
two  hundred  yards  apart,  with  the  ground  between 
rough  as  a  nutmeg  grater  from  broken  shrap- 
nel. 

One  gets  calloused  to  such  sights.  And  why 
waste  pity  upon  tombs,  upon  this  one  great  cata- 
comb, fated  to  be  through  a  matter  of  pigs? 
Why  should  not  Austria-Hungary  tax  Servia's 


142  FIVE  FRONTS 

hams,  and  deny  her  the  seaport  earned  in  two  vic- 
torious wars?  She  is  the  stronger.  That  is  the 
Germanic  philosophy  that  justifies  so  much  that 
each  beUigerent  has  wrought  since  August  i. 
Silly  to  dispute  it. 

We  ploughed  from  village  to  village,  with  such 
names  as  Glusci,  Metkovic,  Bogatic,  Sovljak,  on 
this  fat  river  plain.  But  the  thick  population  hav- 
ing been  entirely  peasant  proprietors,  the  many- 
coloured  farmhouses  were  continuous  along  the 
roads.  At  cross-roads  there  would  be  a  rude 
cross  or  holy  image  behind  a  railing  and  under  a 
small  wooden  shelter  like  an  inverted  V. 

The  first  real  battlefield  lay  between  Nocaj 
and  Glusci,  in  the  rushes  and  standing  water  of  a 
big  willow  swamp.  Six  graves  lay  outside  the  first 
ring  of  sod-built  caverns  that  marked  an  artillery 
position.  On  the  lathe  crosses,  inscribed  with  the 
mongrel  Servian  lettering,  hung  elaborate  green 
wreaths,  one  with  long  purple  ribbons  and  a  gilt 
inscription.  Opposite,  the  highest  line  of  trenches 
was  crested  with  a  low  brick  battlement,  pierced  by 
ports  just  large  enough  for  rifle  muzzles,  as  all 
the  better  earthworks  are.  Behind  stood  a  small 
Greek  church,  windowless,  the  oval  red  tiles  of 
its  roof  bristling  upright  and  shattered  from  bul- 
lets. Within,  gilt  ikons,  benches,  candlesticks, 
gaudy  vestments  tripped  you  in  a  muddy  tangle. 
Red-brown  stains  on  the  floor  and  the  shattered 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB         143 

plastering  told  a  story  that  not  even  barbarous 
Mexico  can  match  —  of  hand-to-hand  fighting  in 
a  place  of  worship. 

You  rub  your  eyes.  Civilised  beings  killing  In 
churches?  You  refuse  to  believe  it,  until,  lurch- 
ing along,  the  venom  of  warfare  here  slowly  stuns 
the  mind  with  a  respect  for  what  of  old  was  called 
savagery,  beside  such  twentieth  century  perver- 
sions. Not  a  gaping,  empty  house  that  did  not 
have  Its  pocked  lines  of  bullets  between  the 
smashed  windows;  not  a  yard  unllttered  with 
broken  chairs,  bedsteads,  the  straw  torn  from  mat- 
tresses, and  the  bulging  narrow-necked  earthen 
Servian  urns,  glazed  half  In  green,  half  in  yellow. 
Mile  after  mile,  and  not  a  soul  slinking  about  the 
empty  outhouses  with  peaked,  thatched  roofs  like 
enormous  candle-snuffers ;  near  the  high  corncrlbs, 
painted  black  below  and  above,  quartered,  squared 
and  angled  with  red,  yellow,  and  blue,  like  the  pat- 
tern on  a  Navajo  blanket.  Not  a  windbreak  of 
Lombardy  poplars  or  a  line  of  pollard  willows  that 
had  not  branches  torn  and  drooping  from  shell- 
fire,  and  in  every  dooryard  the  pile  of  red  bricks, 
some  still  symmetrically  stacked,  but  mostly  well 
demolished,  behind  which  men  had  fallen  in  de- 
fending a  fireside. 

Fallen  there?  Fled?  Slowly  you  doubt  any 
solution  so  happy  or  heroic.  You  remember  the 
returned  American  emigrant  who  told  you  in  Mit- 


144  FIVE  FRONTS 

rovltz  that  these  peasants  had  been  captured  and 
later  shot  by  the  thousand.  I  had  smiled  then, 
with  my  tongue  in  a  cheek,  only  now  to  feel  fiercely 
that  I  had  done  him  a  trivial  injustice.  Surely 
they  had  not  died  here;  in  the  ditches  were  not 
enough  of  those  surface  graves,  long  ovals  of  cut 
sod  that  resembled  deformed  and  enormous  tor- 
toises. Not  fled;  for  in  France,  where  the 
slaughter  was  bitterest,  at  least  the  children  and 
the  aged  returned  with  a  desolate  hope  to  rum- 
mage in  their  sodden  belongings.  Here  there  was 
no  one ;  a  people  wiped  out  —  with  only  the  initi- 
ating pigs  assembled  to  feed  the  assassins.  Ex- 
quisite symbol! 

Yet  gradually  the  Interior  life  did  emerge. 
The  houses  became  pathetically  more  pretentious, 
with  the  dates  of  their  erection  lettered  over  the 
first-story  windows;  with  glazed  reliefs  in  colour 
between  the  lintels,  of  a  saint's  head,  a  bird,  a 
coat-of-arms,  and  little  peaked  roofs  over  the  en- 
trance gates.  Down  the  highroad  between  cold 
pools  of  water,  where  the  clematis  still  showed  its 
fuzzy  fruit  quite  as  in  our  Northern  States,  creaked 
a  cart  piled  with  bedding  and  dark  worn  fur- 
iture.  Through  the  mud  beside  it  ploughed  along 
an  old  bareheaded  woman  in  a  sleeveless  skin- 
jacket,  and  the  low  sandals  of  her  people  with  long 
up-pointed  toes.  Soon  another  appeared  in  a 
gateway,  lugging  a  pail  of  water. 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB         145 

"Serbischer!  Serblscher!  "  exclaimed  the 
young  Bohemian  peasant  with  the  crooked  mouth 
who  was  driving  us,  and  nudged  me  with  his  whip 
in  excited  glee.  But  not  over  the  women.  At  last 
there  was  a  man,  a  Serb,  in  sight.  He  was  such  a 
being  as  quite  naturally  would  cause  a  patriotic 
enemy  unbridled  joy.  He  was  white-haired,  and 
a  cripple.  His  knees  seemed  glued  together,  and 
he  fought  on  through  the  mud,  swinging  a  stick 
with  the  dazed  Inconsequence  of  a  blind  man,  and 
his  body  in  reverse  direction  to  it  —  a  crab-like 
motion. 

The  Social  Democrat  hit  up  his  grunts,  seized 
his  shock  of  Karl  Marx  hair,  and  his  stone-blue 
eyes  gleamed.  The  Oberleutenant  dropped  his 
jaw,  but  no  more.  I  wondered  whether  he  was 
thinking  of  the  eight  Austrian  soldiers  now  alive 
for  every  Serb  peasant,  or  of  pigs  —  or  both,  con- 
fusing all  three. 

More  women  in  their  chimney-sweep  boots  we 
saw,  one  leading  a  skinny  horse,  another  shooing  a 
hen,  but  every  one  seeming  engaged  in  some  be- 
lated, Instinctive  duty,  desperately,  with  bowed 
head  and  furtive  movements,  as  if  to  cease  it  were 
to  invite  a  fate  they  knew  too  well.  But  there  was 
only  one  more  man.  He  was  peering,  open- 
mouthed,  from  a  shattered  window,  and  his  was 
the  sloping  forehead  and  wide-apart,  upstaring 
eyes  of  an  Idiot. 


146  FIVE  FRONTS 

"Serb !"  began  the  red-cheeked  driver, 

but  ended  with  a  playful  grunt. 

I  had  jabbed  the  butt  of  his  whip  back  into  his 
stomach.  Perhaps  his  ecstasy,  greeting  thus  the 
sole  type  of  progenitors  for  the  future  of  this 
strong,  pure  race,  as  though  it  was  a  side-show 
freak,  deserved  a  blow  or  shot.  At  any  rate,  I 
made  the  officer  grin.  But  maybe  he  was  only  re- 
lieved that  that  idiot  had  not  a  bouquet-bomb  con- 
cealed under  the  window-sash  of  his  home. 

The  future  of  a  race.  Servia,  after  this  last 
of  her  three  wars,  should  give  the  biologists  who 
work  in  laboratories  a  better  field  for  proving  the 
magnificence  of  militarism  than  all  the  locked 
doors  of  Peace  Conferences.  Her  strong  sons 
are  gone;  men  that  the  world  has  always  needed, 
and,  after  this  war,  will  cry  helplessly  for;  men 
that  we  in  America  want.  It  is  to  wonder 
whether,  for  the  horde  of  Immigrants  from  all 
countries  that  is  going  to  flood  us  if  peace  comes, 
we  have  yet  bethought  ourselves  to  deal  with  the 
unfit  that  must  form  their  majority. 

One  laboured  on,  filled  with  indefinable  bitter- 
nesses. Behind,  closed  these  stark  sights  with  a 
dream-like  finality  that  makes  detailed  recollec- 
tion hard.  Outside  each  town  rose  a  high  and 
tapering  pole,  like  a  single  radio  standard,  except 
that  at  Intervals  upon  it  cross  pieces  bore  upright 
carvings  like  little  candelabra,  proving  some  reli- 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB         147 

glous  symbolism.  Once,  prowling  among  some 
out  houses,  I  saw  a  sharp  eared  brindle  bitch  fol- 
lowed by  two  puppies  limping  and  whining  as  they 
do  before  their  eyes  are  opened.  She  was  haunt- 
ing her  old  home,  searching  for  the  children, 
likely,  whom  the  pups'  birth  had  excited  and  mys- 
tified. Such  a  birth  amid  such  death!  And  the 
dog's  likeness,  by  some  irony,  suggested  that  wolf 
which  one  sees  in  bronze,  who  suckled  the  young 
Romulus  and  Remus  from  whom  sprang  all  the 
empire  of  Rome. 

Darkness  fell.  We  piled  out  at  the  last  cross- 
roads into  the  ankle  deep  muck  and  freezing 
drizzle  of  this  village.  The  corner  house,  once  a 
drinking-place,  sent  out  the  faint  glow  from  a  big 
drumstove.  Inside,  on  bunks  crowding  the  floor 
space,  stifled  in  the  foul  air  that  Europeans  seem 
to  love,  half  a  company  of  bearded  landsturm. 
Czechs,  Hungarians,  Croats,  Teutons,  they  gave 
the  lie  to  tales  of  racial  quarrels  and  segregation  in 
this  army,  and  their  diversity  made  them  receive 
me  without  suspicion.  As  they  played  cards  with 
one  of  those  huge  Austrian  packs,  they  borrowed 
my  tobacco,  joked  about  my  khaki  clothes;  and  the 
Slavs  chuckled  at  my  Russian  —  all  with  the  holi- 
day good-nature  of  reserves,  tragic  in  its  insensi- 
bility to  the  blasted  homes  and  hearths  outside. 

A  Hauptmann  sent  for  me,  to  his  tiny  cell  of  a 
room  in  the  same  building,  lit  by  candles  stuck  into 


148  FIVE  FRONTS 

bottles,  its  smashed  windows  stuffed  with  rags. 
He  was  the  English-speaking  type  of  reserve  of- 
ficer, whom  my  days  at  the  Austrian  front  have 
resolved  into  a  type :  the  commercial  Teuton  called 
from  England  or  America  into  an  ill-fitting  uni- 
form, and  tinged  with  a  cosmopolitanism  that 
makes  his  partisanship,  when  he  speaks  English, 
seem  half-hearted.  This  one  had  exported  rosin 
and  pitch  from  our  South.  You  could  see  that  his 
sun  bleached  beard  was  less  a  necessity  of  rough- 
ing it  than  a  concession  to  the  style  of  his  re- 
adopted  people. 

He  started  in  great  detail  to  rehearse  the  war 
here  from  its  beginning  —  how  the  first  fighting 
down  near  Valjevo  forced  the  Austrian  drawing 
movement  (euphemism  for  retreat)  to  north  of 
the  Save,  since  which  retribution  all  around  had 
been  visited  on  his  enemy.  And  then,  as  usual, 
he  ended,  "  But  I  get  all  my  information  from  the 
newspapers."  Indeed,  what's  the  use?  That  I 
do  not  quote  him  is  no  reflection  on  his  sincer- 
ity; only,  I  find  rnyself  clinging  tighter  than  ever 
to  the  two  axioms  for  reporters  in  this  war,  viz. : 
Expect  2  +  2  always  to  make  5.  Believe  noth- 
ing unless  you  see  it  • —  and  don't  believe  it  then. 

So,  Instead,  I  steered  him  into  the  favourite 
pastime  of  all  Teutons,  which  is  to  defend  Ger- 
many's entry  into  Belgium.  And  the  same  two 
arguments   appeared:    the   back-handed   Jesuitry 


A  GLORIOUS  CATACOMB         149 

that  France  *'  would  have  violated  the  treaty, 
anyhow,  if  we  hadn't " ;  that  the  Belgians 
were  secretly  bound  to  France,  and  were  fools, 
who  now  cursed  the  Allies  for  not  having  accepted 
the  bribe  of  non-molestation,  practically  to  ally 
themselves  with  the  invaders.  But  the  Budapest 
journalist,  who  had  followed  us,  ended  this  praise 
of  sordidness  by  excitedly  entering  it  with  his 
grunts.  And  that,  after  two  days  of  pretending 
that  he  did  not  understand  English !  So  I  escaped 
him  to  this  schoolhouse  —  one  of  the  hundreds 
throughout  Servia,  in  each  of  which,  had  she  ac- 
cepted Austria's  famous  note,  Serb  teachers  would 
to-day  be  telling  children  Austria's  version  of  his- 
tory. 

All  this  morning  I  have  been  groping  and  stum- 
bling through  the  blizzard,  on  the  aforesaid  bat- 
tlefield between  the  Save  and  the  Drina.  But  one 
has  given  picture  enough  of  its  edges.  You  sit 
upon  earthworks  strewn  with  empty  cartridge- 
boxes,  with  every  branch  of  the  pollard  willows 
behind  snapped  from  the  firing,  and  try  to  amuse 
yourself  with  the  thought  that,  anyway,  soldiers 
here  have  done  more  solid  digging  in  a  week  than 
any  subway  contractor  could  put  over  in  a  year. 

Whole  forests  of  saplings  would  be  axed  to 
give  a  glacis.  You  wander  through  artillery  posi- 
tions, their  caves  and  walls  of  sod  bricks  rein- 
forced by  willow  thatching,  the  water  ankle  deep, 


ISO  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  dark  interiors  filled  with  bloody  clothing,  rusty 
trappings,  mildewed  boots,  and  grub.  And 
wherever  there  Is  space  enough  between  the  great 
network  of  trenches,  the  little  graveyards  Inside 
low  palings,  and  the  crosses  of  two  staves  with  the 
pencilled  Inscriptions,  the  bedraggled  wreaths. 
Overhead,  always  the  guttural  muttering  of  the 
swarms  of  grey-bellied  ravens.  Marvellous  am- 
buscades there  were  —  whole  lines  of  apparent 
haycocks,  that  turned  out  to  be  brick  shelters. 
Among  the  shattered  houses,  always  the  peasant 
woman's  wooden  trough  for  mixing  bread  lying 
split  near  the  great  mud  oven.  Every  road  axle- 
deep  in  mud,  but  alive  with  huge  supply  motors, 
many  of  them  stuck  and  helpless,  being  hauled  by 
shouting  soldiers,  that  the  bloodshed  and  devasta- 
tion may  go  on  and  on  to  the  southward. 

I  came  upon  but  one  corpse,  among  the  golden 
pumpkins  of  what  once  had  been  a  cornfield.  The 
long  rains  had  washed  away  his  shallow  grave. 
At  each  end  you  saw  the  outline  of  a  skull,  of  legs 
and  feet,  stained  with  the  palish  green  that  cor- 
rupts such  flesh. 

The  Social  Democrat  may  snore  now  all  he 
likes.  I  have  vented  my  feelings.  For  breakfast 
I  have  still  a  can  of  goulash,  tea,  and  enough  alco- 
hol in  the  tiny  stove,  without  which  you  cannot 
live  at  such  an  Austrian  "  front." 


Ill 


PRISONERS  AND  AN  AMERICAN 

MiTROVlTZ  again,  December  i. —  When  I  last 
left  Vienna  the  premier  of  Weingartner's  "  Kain 
und  Abel "  was  being  given  at  the  Imperial 
Opera  House,  and  most  of  the  cabaret  shows  had 
re-opened.  One,  at  the  Femina,  was  extremely 
funny.  It  was  a  burlesque  on  the  war.  The 
scene  opened  on  Olympus,  with  von  Moltke,  Na- 
poleon and  Radetzky  —  a  cascade  of  green  feath- 
ers in  his  helmet  —  discussing  English  diplomacy. 
English,  French,  Russian,  German  privates, 
splittingly  caricatured,  joked  with  one  another 
in  later  scenes.  One,  in  a  coffee-house,  for  there 
Viennese  ladies  knit  grey  things  to  keep  the  sol- 
diers warm,  a  soldier  impersonated  one  of  them, 
holding  up  a  stocking,  as  he  said,  "  For  my  girl, 
with  a  limb  two  metres  long." 

An  Austrian  official  "  very  close  to  von  Berch- 
told,"  as  dispatches  from  Rome  to  the  English 
newspapers  say,  told  me  when  I  asked  him  to  ex- 
plain such  levity  that  the  Viennese  temperament 
just  couldn't  stand  worrying  and  grieving  any 
longer,  simply  had  to  break  loose.  The  same 
man,  incidentally,  gave  the  most  convincing  justifi- 

151 


152  FIVE  FRONTS 

cation  for  Austria's  precipitation  of  the  great  war : 
The  Servians  are  mad,  ambitious  barba- 
rians, anyway,  bound  to  attack  us  some  time; 
so  it  was  better  to  fight  them  alone,  while  all  the 
Balkan  States  were  at  loggerheads.  But  Eng- 
land plunged  the  world  into  war  by  her  irrespon- 
sible aUiance  with  Russia,  who  was  bound  to  sup- 
port Servia.  Yes,  the  German  Foreign  Office  did 
know  of  the  Sarajevo  ultimatum  before  it  was  sent, 
but  only  "  by  a  day  or  two."  Germany  cause  it? 
Never!  She  had  everything  to  lose  and  nothing 
to  win  by  war.  In  fifteen  years  the  commercial 
supremacy  of  Europe  would  have  been  hers,  any- 
way. 

But  I  am  writing  in  Slavonia,  which  is  very  far 
from  Vienna,  from  cabarets,  cafes,  and  foreign 
offices.  Just  across  the  River  Save  lies  a  great 
region,  the  richest  in  southeastern  Europe,  whose 
farms  and  cornfields  as  they  are  to-day  would 
make  Egypt  after  her  last  plague  look  like  para- 
dise. Through  Mitrovitz  have  just  passed  as 
prisoners  500  of  the  folk,  or  their  brothers,  who 
once  raised  corn  and  pigs  and  pumpkins  and  chil- 
dren, and  defended  wives  and  homes  in  that 
blasted  area.  There  was  nothing  burlesque  or 
funny  about  them,  as  they  stood  in  the  village 
square  outside  the  Hotel  Kovacs  yesterday.  They 
looked  very  barbarian,  indeed,  but  in  no  way 
mad ;  still,  no  one  was  sitting  in  the  Kovacs  coffee- 


PRISONERS  AND  AN  AMERICAN     153 

house,  knitting  and  cracking  jokes  about  them. 

They  had  come  from  Valjevo,  and  reminded 
me  most  of  men  I  had  seen  in  the  early  Alaskan 
days,  tottering  into  camp  starving,  exhausted,  and 
diseased  from  the  tragedies  of  the  long  trail. 
Not  one  had  a  complete  uniform;  here  and  there 
their  khaki-coloured  flannel  trousers,  the  round 
caps,  were  eked  out  with  long  grey  stockings,  a 
blue  Austrian  coat,  shirts  and  mitts  gaily  em- 
broidered by  a  wife  or  mother,  but  not  for  war. 
All  wore  the  pointed  Serb  shoes,  like  Turkish  slip- 
pers, and  every  garment  was  grimed,  torn,  mud- 
crusted.  They  had  no  knapsacks,  but  mostly  car- 
ried bundles  of  blue  or  scarlet  cloth ;  half  had  their 
arms  in  slings,  heads  bandaged. 

I  have  seen  many  prisoners  in  this  war,  but 
never  anywhere  living  things  so  mute  and  desper- 
ate, so  foot-sore  and  lifeless,  so  at  their  last 
gasp.  They  limped  on,  out  of  step,  joggling 
one  another,  several  of  the  weaker  with  arms 
thrown  around  the  necks  of  their  comrades. 
Even  the  Austrian  guard  herding  them  to  the  bar- 
racks down  by  the  river,  kept  its  eyes  averted  from 
them,  and  bayonets  held  carelessly.  But  all  the 
faces  in  the  captured  throng  were  in  some  manner 
fine,  with  prominent  cheekbones;  rather  dark  and 
resolute  and  proud,  with  an  oriental  trace  about 
the  eyes,  yet  always  with  the  pale  Slav  hair  rising 
abruptly  from  their  brows. 


154  FIVE  FRONTS 

The  populace  gazed  on  in  silence.  You  could 
even  hear  a  gurgle  of  pity  in  some  throats,  as  the 
most  foot-sore  fought  on,  excruciatingly.  "  Les 
pauvres !  "  muttered  an  Austrian  officer,  a  friend 
who  always  spoke  French  with  me.  "  No  matter 
if  they  are  our  enemies,  they  are  yet  human  be- 
ings." But  the  next  moment,  when  I  passed  a 
lieutenant  cigarettes,  and  greeted  him  in  Russian, 
a  hand  pulled  me  back  and  I  was  ordered  to  keep 
quiet.  The  young  prisoner  wore  a  purple  chrys- 
anthemum in  his  coat,  and  you  should  have  seen 
his  face  light  up. 

Suddenly  a  little  sallow  old  man,  who  still  car- 
ried a  queer  round  knife  in  his  hand,  fell  flat  in  the 
mud,  and  stayed  there  moaning,  rubbing  a  hand 
back  and  forth  across  his  forehead,  until  a  com- 
rade lifted  him  to  his  feet.  An  Austrian  soldier 
pushed  him  on.  He  was  a  moving  bundle  of  rags, 
his  lined  face  blacker  than  a  Turk's.  He  closed 
the  procession;  the  last  I  saw  of  him,  he  was  far 
behind  all,  with  the  soldier  holding  him  up  by  the 
collar  as  he  "  walked  Spanish,"  but  with  hands 
still  sullenly  in  his  pockets.  It  was  not  pleasant; 
but  worse,  perhaps,  was  the  look  on  the  face  of  the 
little  Serb  boy  who  brings  you  beer  in  the  Kovacs. 
He  was  standing  In  the  doorway,  his  face  inde- 
scribably contorted  at  this  glimpse  of  what  re- 
mains of  his  race,  fighting  for  life.     What  were 


PRISONERS  AND  AN  AMERICAN     155 

his  thoughts  ?  What  did  the  future  mean  to  him, 
if  he  could  conceive  of  such  a  thing? 

The  Vienna  cabarets  have  missed  the  best  ma- 
terial for  their  shows,  indeed.  And  diverting  sub- 
jects are  not  lacking  there.  For  example,  to  show 
the  Sarajevo  tragedy,  as  one  hears  it  to  be,  an 
agent  provocateur  job.  The  anti-Slav,  Hun- 
garian Forgach,  who  forged  the  Belgrad  letters 
before  Bosnia  was  annexed,  got  a  high  place  in 
the  foreign  office  just  before  it.  A  forger  will  not 
hesitate  at  murder.  Poor  Franz  Ferdinand  be- 
lieved in  consolidating  his  Slav  peoples,  which 
would  have  threatened  current  Hungarian  domi- 
nance in  the  Empire. 

Or  dramatise  that  old  personal  row  between  the 
German  Ambassador  at  Vienna,  when  he  was  sta- 
tioned in  Petrograd,  and  one  of  the  Russian 
Grand  Dukes.  The  first,  as  the  prime  spirit  that 
made  the  war,  rather  robs  Count  Tisza  of  kudos 
in  many  minds,  which  can  prove  to  you  how  per- 
sonal spats  caused  this  whole  crime  of  civilisation. 
And  it  is  doubtful  if  Austrians  will  ever  stage  the 
following: 

Lately  here  in  Mitrovitz  a  visitor,  an  Ameri- 
can, called  on  me.  I  live  in  the  house  of  a  Serb 
schoolmaster,  judging  from  the  group  photo- 
graphs on  the  walls  of  this  room,  with  its  fine  par- 
quet floor,  huge  porcelain  stove,  and  wardrobes 


156  FIVE  FRONTS 

of  shiny  Circassian  walnut.  My  major  domo  is 
an  Austrian-Serb,  Gliza  Milz  by  name,  a  dynamo 
of  curiosity,  who  is  always  bursting  into  the  room 
to  gaze  at  this  typewriter  as  I  click  on  —  which  is 
annoying,  but  can  be  borne  with,  as  Miiz  under- 
stands not  a  word  of  English. 

The  visitor  was  Ivan  Tornich,  a  sallow  being 
with  beady  eyes  and  upright  black  hair  on  a  small 
crown.  He  had  worked  for  ten  years  in  the  Car- 
negie mills  at  South  Sharon,  Pa.,  returning  to  his 
Servian  home  only  after  his  wife  had  died  and 
there  was  no  one  to  care  for  his  three  young  chil- 
dren. Not  until  he  had  described  the  Servian 
bombardment  of  this  town  at  the  end  of  Septem- 
ber, how  with  deadly  accuracy  and  acumen  the 
coffee-house  of  the  Hotel  Merkur  had  been  shelled 
and  burnt,  did  I  grasp  him  as  the  spiritual  epitome 
of  the  scores  of  now  outlawed  Americans  who 
have  accosted  me  during  six  weeks  at  the  Aus- 
trian front. 

Then  suddenly,  like  a  woman  who  has  vainly 
tried  to  control  her  tears,  he  broke  out  — "  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  big  a  heart  I  have  for  America. 
It  is  the  finest  country  in  the  world.  No  man 
there  takes  you  suddenly  by  the  shoulder  and  says, 
*  Who  are  you?  Where  are  you  going?  '  "  He 
jumped  to  his  feet,  gesticulating.  "  Over  there 
the  Englishman,  Frenchman,  the  Russian,  all  are 
the  same.     Each  is  a  king.     Wherever  you  go 


PRISONERS  AND  AN  AMERICAN     157 

in  this  country,  let  me  follow  you,  work  for  you  — • 
I  beg." 

He  controlled  himself  far  better  than  I  did. 
One  is  very  far  from  home  here.  My  eyes,  not 
his,  held  a  warm  flood.  I  wondered  in  all  that  we 
ever  feel  toward  our  national  melting-pot  —  from 
the  fierce  ideality  begotten  in  ghettos  to  the  Bour- 
bonism  of  caste  and  labour  —  whether  any  one 
had  ever  been  hit  more  strongly  by  what  America 
can  mean  to  the  alien.  And  except  for  the  war, 
I  should  have  missed  this  revelation  of  that  deeper 
brotherhood  rooted  in  the  absurd  word  freedom. 

Tornich  had  to  recite  graphically  how  he  had 
gotten  his  first  job  on  landing  in  America;  how  he 
had  reached  a  Pennsylvania  mining  town  in  a  bliz- 
zard with  only  half  a  dollar  in  his  pocket;  how  an 
utter  stranger,  native  born,  had  taken  him  in, 
boarded  him  free,  finally  shipped  him  to  the  South 
Sharon  job. 

"  I  did  not  know  him,"  said  Ivan,  with  a  ga- 
ping admiration  that  ten  years  had  left  undimmed. 
"  But  now  I  know  that  all  men  who  speak  English 
are  good  —  like  the  English  whiskey,  the  Ameri- 
can tobacco.  Ah  —  !  "  he  sighed,  with  a  qualm 
of  homesickness.  "  I  remember  the  Jack  John- 
son fight.  I  was  in  a  saloon  watching  the  ticker. 
How  Jeffries  at  first  winged  him,  so  —  and 
so "  he  made  with  his  fists  a  fair  Slav  imita- 
tion of  uppercuts.     "  It  was  too  bad  that  he  could 


158  FIVE  FRONTS 

not  last  out,  eh?  And  now  I  am  here  In  Mitro- 
vitz,  running  a  grocery  store  —  like  any  Jew." 

The  confession  brought  a  moment  as  dramatic 
as  any  I  have  had  on  the  firing-line.  Gliza  Miiz, 
of  course,  had  been  present  all  the  time,  disturbed 
and  fidgeting  that  he  could  not  comprehend  a 
word  we  spoke,  jealous  and  mystified  over  Tor- 
nich's  pantomimes  and  passionate  confidences. 
MHz  Is  a  dark  and  ruddy,  saturnine  fellow,  with 
fierce  up-curled  moustachios,  whose  ends  turn  back 
and  touch  his  nose. 

All  at  once  he  left  the  room,  slamming  the  door. 

"  Look  out  for  that  man  —  for  Miiz,"  de- 
clared Tornich.  "  He  is  no  friend  of  mine.  He 
is  in  the  Austrian  secret  police !  " 

So.  A  "  square-toe."  But  all  I  said  was, 
"  He  Is,  Is  he  ?  "  remembering  that  I  had  been  par- 
ticularly quartered  on  MHz  by  my  Austrian  Ober- 
leutenant.  Was  I  also  being  watched?  From 
all  accounts,  the  old  Russian  surveillance  could 
easily  take  a  leaf  from  Austrian  police  intrigue. 
I  recollected  how  when  I  went  between  the  lines 
around  Przemysl,  I  was  eavesdropped  and  shep- 
herded by  Austrian  officers  if  I  spoke  to  the  many 
Americans  caught  for  the  ranks. 

"  Do  not  repeat  anything  that  I  have  told  you, 
to  any  one,"  said  Tornich.  "  I  could  be  put  under 
arrest  at  any  moment.     I  am  always  watched." 

I  assured  him.     For  the  rest,  it  appeared  that 


PRISONERS  AND  AN  AMERICAN     159 

he  had  already  done  a  turn  in  jail,  for  the  usual 
eight  weeks  by  which  the  Austrian  Government 
punishes  emigrants,  under  the  excuse  of  "  prov- 
ing "  their  papers,  for  having  become  American 
citizens  and  boasting  in  their  old  homes  over  the 
easy  money  in  the  U.  S.  A.  After  that  time,  the 
maximum  for  the  purpose  according  to  our  treaty 
with  Austria,  our  Embassy  can  protest  and  free 
the  prisoner.  But  Austria  never  keeps  them 
longer  —  she  badgers  up  to  the  limit  of  interna- 
tional law. 

"  I  am  a  prisoner  here  in  Mitrovitz  now,"  said 
Ivan. 

"  Why  don't  you  appeal  to  our  Ambassador  in 
Vienna?  We  keep  him  there,  you  and  I,"  I  ex- 
plained, exactly  as  I  had  to  others  in  Galicia,  "  for 
the  very  purpose  of  saving  you  these  humilia- 
tions." 

"  Write  to  him?  "  he  exclaimed,  laughing  with 
scorn.  "Write  to  him?  He  would  never  even 
get  the  letter.  It  would  be  opened,  and  I  should 
go  straight  to  jail.  You  cannot  know  this  coun- 
try. To  the  Austrians,  though  I  am  as  much  an 
American  as  you  are,  I  am  still  a  Serb,  an  enemy." 

I  nodded  sadly.  I  had  to,  because  I  know  that 
this  is  all  too  true.  But  as  an  American-born,  who 
must  feel  a  sort  of  foster-father  to  such  folk,  I 
felt  ashamed.  He  told  me  about  his  three  chil- 
dren, living  with  his  mother  in  a  southern  Servian 


i6o  FIVE  FRONTS 

village.  He  was  very  sure  that  Austrian  troops 
had  not  yet  reached  it.  I  did  not  tell  him  what  I 
had  seen  around  Crnabara.  That  would  have 
been  useless  and  cruel.  I  only  hope  that  his  eldest 
boy,  aged  twelve,  is  still  dominating  his  playmates 
with  the  slang  and  twang  that  he  learned  in  his 
South  Sharon  grammar  school. 

But  here  is  the  point.  It  is  now  four  days  since 
Tornich's  visit,  and  I  have  not  laid  eyes  on  him. 
He  had  promised  to  come  around  the  next  after- 
noon. I  have  done  everything,  up  to  risking  sus- 
picion in  the  Oberleutenant's  eyes,  to  find  his 
grocery  store,  and  have  always  failed.  A  dozen 
times  I  have  demanded  that  Mr.  Gliza  Miiz  — 
good-natured  square-toe  that  he  is  otherwise  — 
produce  him.  But  always  there  is  some  excuse. 
Ivan  is  out  of  town,  he  is  not  allowed  on  the 
streets  after  four  in  the  afternoon,  he  has  moved 
from  his  house  to  no  one  knows  where. 

Of  course,  I  know  that  he  has  been  frightened 
into  not  daring  to  come  here,  if  he  is  not  actually 
behind  the  bars.  But  what  can  I  do,  except  try 
to  extract  a  certain  grim  and  philosophic  thrill 
from  this  touch  of  *'  Balkanism  " —  of  the  me- 
diaevalism,  the  childish  mystery,  inherent  in  the 
shadow  of  the  anachronistic  Hapsburg  realm? 
Or  try  to  realise  that  this  is  the  twentieth  century, 
and  that  I  am  not  in  the  Russia  of  tradition,  but  in 
enlightened,  Germanic  Austria? 


PART  IV 
WITH  THE  GERMANS  IN  FLANDERS 


WORKING  ROYALTY 

Lille,  France,  January  12. —  In  spite  of  all  that 
France,  Servia,  and  Galicia  have  revealed,  the 
war  had  on  a  mask  for  me  until  last  night.  Then 
it  was  torn  away,  northwest  of  here,  where  the 
most  advanced  German  infantry  are  hitting  and 
being  hit  the  hardest.  I  was  in  the  front  line  of 
Bavarian  trenches  by  the  Ypem  Canal,  four  miles 
south  of  Ypres.  And  I  had  a  Mauser  in  my 
hands. 

But  I  challenge  that  only  a  man  with  sawdust  in 
his  veins  would  not,  too,  have  fired  then,  as  this 
story  should  prove.  Also,  that  any  one  would 
have  given  his  eye-teeth  to  join  our  hand  of  poker 
and  the  pint  of  champagne  we  cracked  in  that 
pitchy,  noisome  darkness,  knee-deep  muck  and 
water.  No  precedents  for  civilian  conduct  there  I 
—  on  the  firing  line  of  this  unending  battle-siege, 
in  this  400-mile-long  tussle  that  appears  to  be 
the  deadlock  of  all  warfare,  if  not  the  Cross  of 
civilised  life.  But  not  to  mix  metaphors.  War 
dropped  her  mask  merely  to  appear  as  she  really 
is  to-day  in  Flanders;  to  show  man  on  the  job  in 
his  trenches,  that  phase  of  her  so  jealously  hidden 
by  all  the  armies. 

163 


i64  FIVE  FRONTS 

She  did  show  more:  that  horror  and  beauty, 
stark  power,  and  the  beat  of  human  hearts,  after 
all,  may  be  commingled.  And  H.  G.  Wells  or 
Dante  did  seem  ancemic  beside  one  drenched  and 
glistening  space  we  saw  between  those  close  lines, 
still  heaped,  after  three  weeks,  with  French 
bodies;  beside  the  spectacle  of  ruin,  sound,  and 
ghastly  lights  about  the  Chateau  of  Voormezeele. 
And  these  things  we  had  reached  by  facing  heavy 
rifle  fire  for  two  long  kilometres.  How  we  were 
allowed  to  do  this,  is  a  matter  which  again  deeply 
affects  one's  neutrality.  Hitherto,  when  taxed 
upon  that  subject,  I  have  tactfully  claimed  a  parti- 
sanship for  Servia,  Hungary,  and  Dorsetshire 
alone.     Now  Bavaria  goes  on  the  list. 

For  two  days  we  had  scooted  around  the  French 
department  of  the  Nord  in  royal  Bayerisch  motor 
cars.  A  flag  of  black  and  white  squares  bordered 
with  red  fluttered  on  our  radiator,  the  soldier- 
chauffeur  tooting  a  bugle-call  reserved  for  sover- 
eignty. We  scoured  many  empty,  shot-to-pieces 
villages,  such  as  nowadays  the  Sunday  supple- 
ments picture.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  trivial,  but 
think  that  the  world  has  extracted  a  full  pathos 
from  blasted  walls.  On  the  back  seat  we  formed 
the  "  Ruin-Shy  Club."  We  noted  how  dreadful 
the  sufferings  of  the  sugar-beets  had  been.  Field 
after  field  strewn  with  them,  abandoned,  rotting, 
and  just  as  they  were  being  mobilised  into  heaps. 


WORKING  ROYALTY  165 

We  observed  how  country  churches  are  always 
magnets  to  a  fight,  and  that  France's  mortuary 
art  is  the  one  thing  proof  against  shells  and  bul- 
lets. They  go  harmlessly  clear  through  the 
twisted  wire  wreaths  and  china  flowers  of  the 
graveyards.  In  a  schoolhouse  rigged  as  a  feld- 
spital  was  a  Christmas  tree  effectively  decorated 
with  absorbent  cotton  —  and  a  poor,  waxy-faced 
youth  on  a  cot,  whose  blue  eyes  glittered,  and  the 
stump  of  his  right  arm  stirred,  as  an  officer  pinned 
an  iron  cross  to  the  blanket. 

Crown  Prince  Rupprecht,  of  Bavaria,  with 
headquarters  in  the  villa  of  a  fugitive  textile  king 
of  this  town,  was  our  temporary  host.  But  we 
were  guests  of  the  General  Staff  of  the  Army, 
which,  we  had  too  cheerfully  thought,  intended  to 
give  us  a  whiff  of  powder  in  the  west.  So  far, 
we  had  been  led  through  a  trench  near  Arras,  over 
which  a  few  bullets  were  zipping,  to  be  told  that 
the  French  lines  were  400  yards  away  —  hidden 
behind  a  grove  and  a  country-house.  We  had 
had  a  touch  of  chateau  life,  lunching  with  the  staff 
of    a    Prussian    army    corps,    in    the    Marquise 

d'A 's   dining-room,   which  has   an   excellent 

collection  of  old  Dutch  paintings  on  Its  walls. 
Charming  fellows,  they  Insisted  that  the  aged  lady 
held  their  presence  a  godsend,  a  guarantee  of  pro- 
tection, and  that  they  were  on  the  friendliest 
terms  with  her.     She  allowed  them  in  her  apart- 


1 66  FIVE  FRONTS 

ment  upstairs,  first  asking  what  was  wanted  when 
they  knocked  on  the  door.  They  had  fitted  the 
chateau  with  electric  lights;  and  they  saw  a  great 
deal  of  her  —  from  the  windows,  as  she  walked 
alone  in  the  garden. 

Still,  the  nearest  I  had  come  to  action  was  on 
the  night  that  we  dined  with  the  Crown  Prince. 
He  is  a  greyish,  tall,  sinewy  man,  with  a  strong 
oblong  face  and  a  long  mouth  that  in  smiling  turns 
down  at  the  corners.  He  is  a  big-game  hunter, 
and  we  were  discussing  Kamchatkan  mountain- 
sheep  when  the  press-association  member  of  our 
party  interrupted.  Said  he,  an  American,  bowing 
as  he  rubbed  his  hands  behind  his  back  — "  And 
does  your  Royal  Highness  follow  the  chase  as 
ardently  as  did  your  exalted  father?  "  There  was 
an  old-fashioned  spinning  wheel  behind  me,  such 
as  the  rich  bourgeoisie  of  Lille  generally  have  as 
symbols  in  their  salons.  I  nearly  kicked  It  over. 
And  yet,  two  days  later,  either  in  pity  or  requital, 
the  staff  of  S.  K.  H.'s  second  army  corps  granted 
us  permission  to  go  the  limit  for  a  night  in  their 
trenches  on  the  firing  line. 

How  our  General  Staff  hosts,  who,  so  to  speak, 
had  orders  to  "  hang  our  clothes  on  a  hickory 
limb,"  fixed  the  matter  with  Berlin,  I  do  not  know. 
All  through,  they  did  their  very  best  for  us,  con- 
sistent with  carrying  out  orders.  We  were  at 
dinner  with  the  Prince's  staff  when  we  heard  that 


WORKING  ROYALTY  167 

his  corps  had  given  the  "  yes  "  over  the  telephone 
from  their  headquarters  in  Comines,  and  "  with 
cheers."  The  idea  seemed  to  be  that  since  we 
had  kicked  so  hard  to  see  the  real  thing  of  war, 
they  would  offer  us  a  bellyful  of  danger;  and,  as 
it  proved,  the  only  string  tied  to  that  was  quite 
psychological,  had  to  do  with  testing  out  our  cour- 
age, or  bravado,  by  word  of  mouth.  The  chief 
pressure  for  us  had  been  brought  to  bear  by  an 
ex-Senator  In  the  party,  a  born  politician,  who, 
though  he  lost  his  re-election  last  November,  gets 
my  vote  when  he  runs  for  President.  And  he 
had  worked  through  a  major  on  the  Prince's  staff, 
who  is  connected  with  the  family  of  the  Evening 
Post's  owners. 

So  yesterday  morning  we  started  out  northwest, 
with  our  flags  and  bugles,  in  the  direction  of  the 
heavy  artillery  fire  which  so  disturbs  Lille  every 
afternoon.  South  toward  Arras  all  the  roads  and 
blasted  towns  had  been  deserted,  except  for  an  oc- 
casional motor  skimming  officers  to  and  from 
trenches  or  corps  headquarters.  But  here,  as  we 
crossed  and.recrossed  the  Lys,  aswirl  to  its  banks, 
we  met  all  the  movement  and  ordered  turmoil 
just  behind  the  front  of  an  active  army.  I  had 
seen  nothing  to  compare  with  it  since  leaving  the 
glacis  outside  the  forts  of  Przemysl.  Bedraggled 
infantry,  off  duty  for  their  three  days  of  rest, 
trudging  with  long  coats  dyed  by  trench  mud  to 


i68  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  same  colour  as  the  khakled  enemy;  their  re- 
lief returning  more  elastlcally,  half  the  muck  any- 
how beaten  off  their  feldgrau,  from  the  innumer- 
able straw-filled  bunks  in  the  big  Comines  power- 
house. And  not  one  face  showed  strain  or  ill- 
health  —  some  looked  dogged,  perhaps  unthink- 
ing, many  were  pale  and  earth-stained  under  their 
tawny  fuzz;  but  no  round  skull  wobbled  on  its 
short  neck,  no  eye  was  filmed  or  overbright. 

We  edged  the  ditches  to  pass  cavalry,  their 
horses  amazingly  fit,  the  riders'  cheeks  aglow  un- 
der the  dull  bluish  covers  of  the  helmets;  or  Uh- 
lans, crowned  more  broadly  and  carrying  their 
lances,  though  without  flags,  deftly  as  riding- 
crops.  But  this  is  a  time  when  the  war  sits  lightly 
on  horsemen,  and  many  of  them  are  in  the 
trenches.  There  were  landsturm,  assorted  as  to 
age  and  smartness,  perhaps,  but  in  uniforms  as 
yet  unspoiled,  and  with  the  same  swinging,  busi- 
nesslike lope  as  the  regulars.  Covered  supply- 
wagons  creaked  grittily  on  the  rue  pavee,  hold- 
ing calves  for  slaughter  —  schnitzel  on  the  hoof 
—  and  lines  of  black  field-kitchens,  like  toy  steam- 
rollers, catching  up.  Wagons  were  loaded  with 
fresh  planks  for  roofing  bomb-proofs.  A  lieu- 
tenant of  artillery  in  the  doorway  of  the  inn  "  Au 
Pigeon  Voyageur  "  was  wiping  his  eyeglasses  as 
he  made  a  speech  to  his  men  returning  to  their 
guns.     We  had  plunged  into  the  pulsing  fringe 


WORKING  ROYALTY  169 

of  action;  yet  not  over-looking  on  the  curbs  and 
corners  of  twisting  village  streets  the  staring, 
limp-clothed  human  relicts  of  a  conquered  peo- 
ple. 

Comines  lies  just  across  the  old  French  frontier, 
In  Belgium.  We  had  luncheon  with  our  generous 
corps'  staff,  In  some  residence  all  dark  with  lam- 
brequins and  terra-cotta  plaques.  It  was  the  usual 
officers'  mess  —  the  long  table  lined  with  mys- 
tifying uniforms,  bantering  one  another,  but  care- 
fully gracious  to  you;  boiled  meats  to  eat,  yet 
more  of  the  wine  of  the  country  than  beer.  And 
that  our  hosts  were  all-Bavarian  was  plain  from 
the  captain  on  my  right,  who  had  been  to  Oxford, 
and  was  willing  enough  to  admit  In  argument  the 
social  and  economic  dangers  of  a  military  hier- 
archy. Consider  that,  from  a  "  hide-bound  Ger- 
man "  soldier,  on  the  edge  of  battle ! 

Finishing,  another  one  rose  to  say  that,  after 
enduring  the  sights  of  a  lazarette  or  two,  we  could 
go  to  the  field-batteries  that  would  be  full  in  the 
give  and  take  of  the  usual  afternoon  bombard- 
ment. Then  it  would  be  dark,  the  only  time  de- 
cently safe  for  entering  the  trenches.  "  And  any 
one  who  wants  to  spend  the  night  there  " —  he 
winked  out  his  eyeglass,  looking  about  and  lower- 
ing his  voice,  but  as  if  he  expected  his  messmates 
to  grin  while  we  shuddered  — "  will  have  a  full 
opportunity."     I  felt  then  like  a  boy  scout  being 


I70  FIVE  FRONTS 

instructed  In  bugaboos  before  his  first  night  in  the 
woods. 

In  the  hospitals,  more  iron  crosses  were  being 
distributed.  Some  of  the  white-faced,  bandaged 
recipients  smiled  gloriously  as  the  officer  shook 
their  hands.  In  one  ward,  for  this  was  the  new 
town  hospital  as  though  made  to  order  for  the  in- 
vaders, we  came  upon  the  sight  which  always 
drives  me  from  such  places:  the  square  white 
screen  about  the  iron  cot  awaiting  death.  Finally, 
to  the  barrack-powerhouse.  With  the  machinery 
all  cleared  away,  the  expanse  divided  by  low  plank- 
ing Into  6x3  foot  spaces  for  each  man  on  the  hard 
cement,  it  was  like  nothing  less  than  a  roadhouse 
of  the  early  Yukon  days  on  a  huge  scale.  Here 
for  their  regular  three  days  away  from  the 
trenches,  the  men,  all  with  boots  off,  dozed  on 
straw,  mended  clothes,  wrote  letters  on  their 
knapsacks,  just  as  might  sourdoughs  in  from  the 
long  trail,  and  with  the  same  placid  countenances, 
grim  yet  grateful.  It  was  the  life  off  the  job  of 
the  hardest  soldiering,  perhaps,  the  world  has  ever 
known;  but  it  mostly  impressed  me  with  the  small- 
ness  of  that  world,  of  the  universal  sameness  — 
in  the  prone  attitudes,  the  facial  testimonies  — 
of  all  men  under  the  terrible  stress  of  effort, 
whether  in  the  bondage  of  force  or  riches. 

Three  o'clock  found  us  threading  the  narrow 
streets  of  Houthem,  the  divisional  headquarters, 


WORKING  ROYALTY  171 

and  a  stage  nearer  the  inferno  of  the  trenches. 
Already  any  windows  left  in  the  village  were  rat- 
tling to  the  detonations  of  shrapnel ;  their  sudden- 
spawning  white  plumes  over  the  long  rise  west  of 
the  town  made  the  woods  on  its  crest  seem  alive. 
The  place  itself  was  shelled  nearly  every  after- 
noon. A  few  more  house-size  holes  in  its  walls 
and  roof,  and  the  brick  church  de  I'Assomption 
would  be  no  more.  Inside  it,  quite  two  companies 
of  young  volunteers  were  at  arms'  exercise  and 
loading-drill.  Again  It  was  to  wonder  how  the 
war  could  be  fought  without  churches.  The  In- 
cessant click-click-click  of  breech-locks  under  the 
shattered  stained  glass,  the  trickle  of  lathes  and 
plaster  from  the  Imitation  vaulting,  mingled  with 
the  shouts  of  under-officers  teaching  salutes  to 
youths  who  whirled  about  on  their  heels  like  me- 
chanical toys.  The  benches  had  been  piled  in  the 
churchyard,  where  most  of  the  graves  were  brand- 
new,  with  German  names  on  their  wooden  crosses. 
The  chancel  had  been  shoved  aside,  front  to  the 
wall,  to  give  room.  Alone  undisturbed,  maybe  In 
Intentional  irony,  was  a  great  plaster  saint  holding 
the  Infant  Christ,  as  a  Greek  warrior  In  armour 
stretched  supplicating  arms  to  Him. 

We  climbed  the  belfry,  but  only  to  see  a  shat- 
tered Norman  church,  with  a  rooster  weathervane 
and  a  wrecked  village  rise  from  the  crest  of  woods. 
Between  and  beyond  these,  the  German  cross-fire 


172  FIVE  FRONTS 

over  the  invisible  French  trenches  yonder  appeared 
to  meet,  in  white  spurts  like  two  streams  of  cloud 
sped  from  separate  air-currents;  and  waxing 
furious,  brought  out  a  thundering  answer  from  the 
French  batteries  further  north.  On  the  ground 
again  by  the  divisional  station,  two  soldiers  came 
down  the  road  from  that  quarter  carrying  an  ele- 
gant new  coffin  on  their  shoulders.  And  behind 
them  tooted  the  motor-car  that  had  taken  our  of- 
ficial cinema  men  to  the  artillery  up  there.  Ex- 
actly what  had  happened,  the  counter-insinuations 
in  the  pair's  stories  only  fogged.  A  shrapnel 
shell  —  or  a  granate  —  had  exploded  in  the  air  — 
or  hit  the  ground  —  ten  —  up  to  a  hundred  — 
yards  away.  Somebody  had  dropped  his  machine 
and  run,  but  some  one  else  had  skipped  out  first, 
while  No.  2  had  fled  only  because  No.  i  wouldn't 
stand  his  ground  while  he  had  shouted  to  him, 
thought  he  had,  et  cetera.  One  boasted  of  a 
splash  of  mud  hurled  against  his  back,  which  was 
quite  clean,  both  where  he  could  and  couldn't  see 
It.  They  agreed  only  in  their  breathless  resolve 
to  hustle  back  to  Comines,  with  the  twenty  feet 
of  film  that  the  first  peep  of  sun  in  a  week  had 
vouchsafed  them. 

Then  came  our  turn,  but  we  had  no  such  luck. 
We  crossed  the  railway  line  to  a  park  of  two  7.7 
pieces,  behind  a  cover  of  branches  stuck  in  the 
mud,  blazing  away  shrapnel  as  fast  as  the  range 


WORKING  ROYALTY  173 

was  shouted  and  nimble  hands,  each  with  a  metal 
timing-key,  could  twist  the  scale  on  a  shell's  nose. 
I  made  for  the  cave  in  the  embankment,  where  an 
officer  was  receiving  the  range  from  the  fire-con- 
trol, who  worked  it  out  with  his  instruments  and 
by  figuring  angles  in  the  trenches  themselves,  some 
three  kilometres  forward.  Just  this  I  had  so 
often  seen,  though  in  "  direct "  firing  (yet  with  a 
more  complicated  control)  at  our  navy's  battle 
practices.  But  here  was  no  play,  no  mere  com- 
petition; like  a  real  duel  venomed  with  life  com- 
pared to  one  on  the  stage. 

"  Beide  Geschiitzel  "  called  the  lieutenant  with 
the  black  felt  of  the  telephone-receiver  at  his  ear. 
"  Fiinfundzwanzig,  und  siebenundzwanzig!  " 

A  private  shouted  this  from  the  mud-bedded 
logs  of  the  hut  door.  Peering  out,  with  fingers 
pressed  in  your  ears  again,  you  saw  the  whole  gun- 
crew standing  so ;  then  the  arms  of  the  pair  kneel- 
ing at  the  two  breeches  yank  back,  and  the  snubby 
grey  muzzles,  forward  of  their  armour  shields, 
try  to  strain  upward,  in  the  dimmed  thunder,  from 
the  parallel  recoil  cylinders  under  each. 

At  each  leaping  blast,  the  shouted  figures  in- 
creased. Between  them,  I  gossiped  with  the 
lieutenant  —  well  as  I  could,  for  he  spoke  no 
English  —  on  the  optics  and  mathematics  of  the 
game.  He  had  beady,  dark  eyes  and  a  close- 
cropped    moustache.     For    all    the    tension    he 


174  FIVE  FRONTS 

showed,  I  might  have  been  talking  to  one  of  our 
ensigns,   at  the  job  of  qualifying  navy  gunners. 

".  .  .  Dreiunddreizlg.  .  .  .  Und  ein  Viertel 
tieferl" 

He  sat  on  a  carved  oak  chair  from  some 
wrecked  country  house,  but  the  'phone  relay  box 
was  on  a  packing-case.  There  was  a  double  hand- 
saw leaning  against  one  mud  wall,  a  shelf,  with  tea- 
cups, and  a  tiny,  tinselled  Christmas  tree  stuck 
high  on  another.  In  the  back  a  bearded  orderly 
slept  his  off-duty  tour  in  the  dusk  of  scattered 
straw  and  grimy  uniform  coats. 

"  Wieder,  Wiederl  Siebenundzwanzig  — 
zehni" 

But  we  had  fired  our  last  that  day.  Artillery 
duels  from  permanent  positions,  as  I  once  ex- 
plained, are  like  a  chess-game;  moves  (firing)  are 
taken  In  turn,  to  check  and  counter-check.  Regu- 
larly this  battery  shelled  from  3  to  5  P.  M.,  when 
It  knocked  off,  and  the  Frenchies  took  a  whack  for 
the  next  two  hours. 

"  You  must  go,"  said  the  lieutenant.  It  was 
almost  five.  "  In  an  eye-wink  they  shoot  right  on 
us." 

"  But  you're  going  to  stay,"  I  objected. 

"  Ah,"  he  laughed,  though  his  eyes  fell,  "  but 
I  must." 

Yet,  in  the  grip  of  his  hand  on  mine  was  not 
the  least  tremor  or  lingering. 


WORKING  ROYALTY  175 

Outside,  our  General  Staff  cicerone  was  sum- 
moning impatiently.  The  gun-squad  were  leav- 
ing their  breeches,  scuttling  behind  a  ruined  brick 
estaminet  for  shelter.  All  rather  a  fizzle  as 
yet. 

Then  back  in  our  motor  at  Houthem  I  first  per- 
ceived the  string  tied  to  our  freedom  of  the 
trenches.  But  it  was  no  work  of  the  good  Ba- 
varians. 

"  This  afternoon,  in  the  trench  where  you  must 
go,"  said  he  of  the  General  Staff,  "  fifteen  men 
were  killed  by  shrapnel.  They  shell  the  trenches 
all  the  time.  They  get  the  rifle  range  by  day  and 
shoot  all  night." 

Plainly  he  was  trying  to  scare  us  out  of  it. 

"  You  must  advance  across  three  kilometres  of 
open  ground,"  he  added,  "  always  swept  by  heavy 
rifle  fire,  and  by  machine  guns  often.  Men  are 
killed  and  wounded  every  night  going  back  and 
forth.     You  want  to  go?     What  do  you  say ?  " 

Maybe  he  wanted  to  hide  from  us  the  disposi- 
tions of  the  various  headquarters,  or  the  exact 
routine  of  trench  life.  But  they  are  all  in  the 
German  army  regulations,  in  print  at  Washing- 
ton. Or  had  he  solicitude  for  our  lives?  But 
back  in  Berlin  we  had  all  carefully  absolved  any 
one  from  responsibility.  He  had  some  inscrutable 
desire  to  pin  us  down  to  a  programme  before  we 
had  looked  the  ground  over.     The  two  married 


176  FIVE  FRONTS 

scribes  in  our  party,  now  reduced  to  four,  began 
very  sensibly,  in  the  native  phrase  of  one,  "  pull- 
ing the  wife  stuff."  John  Reed  and  I  pleaded  in- 
decision until  we  saw  for  ourselves  just  what  we 
must  go  up  against.  It  was  pitch  dark  then,  and 
beginning  to  rain. 

Such  tergiversations  finally  brought  us  to  the 
brigade  headquarters  in  a  farmhouse  parlour, 
half-way  between  Houthem  and  the  village  seen 
from  the  belfry.  By  the  huge  kitchen  fireplace 
was  rigged  a  sizable  telephone  exchange,  tended 
by  half  a  dozen  soldier-operators.  And  soon  as 
we  saw  the  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  Bavar- 
ian colonel  there,  a  stocky  fellow  with  a  large 
nose.  Reed  and  I  became  adamant.  We  would 
go  the  limit,  even  blindly.  We  compromised 
with  our  General  Staff  host  on  two  hours  in  the 
trenches,  and  the  whole  night  at  the  regimental 
headquarters,  a  mile  up  the  road,  and  well  within 
the  zone  of  incessant  fire  from  the  French  lines. 
I  still  do  not  understand  him;  whether  the  guile 
he  seemed  to  show  was  the  soldier's  embarrass- 
ment when  sidetracked  from  routine,  or  that  real 
simplicity  and  lack  of  self-assurance  which  so  im- 
presses Englishmen  in  the  Teuton.  At  any  rate, 
he  did  not  go  beyond  the  brigade  headquarters 
with  us.  But  the  married  scribes  were  agreed  for 
reaching  the  regimental  base. 

And  then  began   that   night   of  nights.     We 


WORKING  ROYALTY  177 

started  up  the  long  road  to  Hollebeke  village,  In 
tow  of  a  lieutenant  with  a  square  jaw  and  eye- 
glasses, and  a  bow-legged  non-com.  It  was  seven 
o'clock,  drizzling  hard.  Ahead,  over  the  swell- 
ing battlefield,  the  boom  of  artillery  was  dying  fit- 
fully, only  to  be  replaced  by  glimmering  rocket- 
lights  shot  from  the  trenches,  which,  like  flashes 
of  greenish  lightning,  reticulated  the  torn  timber 
and  tottering  walls  of  houses.  The  soupy  mud 
was  ankle  deep.  Momently,  emerging  out  of  the 
obscurity,  we  met  whining  provision  carts,  a  be- 
lated field  kitchen,  a  lone  horseman  with  the  dull 
gleam  of  a  cigar  at  the  apex  of  his  great  cape.  A 
well-travelled  road,  too  defiant  an  artery  of  life, 
in  its  ceaseless  traffic  to  and  fro,  with  death,  de- 
feat, or  victory. 

I  do  not  know  just  where  the  rifle  bullets  began 
kicking  around  us.  But  until  we  reached  the  vil- 
lage they  must  have  been  spent  ones,  since  on  our 
northwest  course  woods  and  a  swell  of  land  cut  off 
the  French  trenches  to  the  north,  though  soon 
they  were  not  a  half  mile  away  as  the  crow  flies. 
What  had  been  said  about  heavy  firing  all  night 
on  the  sights  got  by  day  was  true  enough.  But  in 
all  the  twelve  hours  we  were  under  fire  I  heard 
only  at  scattered  intervals  the  purr  of  a  machine 
gun  or  the  thunder  of  detonating  shells. 

At  first  now  I  read  no  menace  In  the  wiry  notes 
that  entered  the  song  of  the  rising  wind  in  the  tall. 


178  FIVE  FRONTS 

tufty-topped  poplars  which  made  the  road  an  ave- 
nue. 

"  Please  —  please,"  came  from  the  lieutenant, 
"  to  walk  ten  metres  apart  from  each." 

I  dropped  behind  the  non-com.,  who  was  in  the 
van,  and  Reed  observed  the  thirty  feet  in  my  rear. 
Suddenly  every  one  had  stopped  talking.  You 
can  read  all  sorts  of  fears  into  a  stormy  night  un- 
der swishing  branches.  Certainly  in  the  fields  to 
the  right  bullets  were  striking  with  pops  like  very 
venomous  firecrackers;  but  the  taut-wire  vibra- 
tions overhead  were  but  inviting  sighs,  surely,  in 
the  concerted  night-sounds  of  a  proper  front.  A 
time,  I  reflected,  when  the  bachelor  fatalist  has 
a  mean  advantage,  less  of  will  than  tempera- 
ment. 

At  last  the  winking  rocket  flashes  seemed  to 
push  the  village  around  us.  It  was  as  if  walls  had 
enclosed  us  in  a  shooting-gallery.  I  had  been 
wrong,  of  course,  about  the  sighs  overhead.  The 
tuck-tuck  on  what  remained  of  slate  roofs  in  that 
little  lightless  Pompeii  —  the  village  church's  re- 
sembled black  lace,  exactly  —  cut  them  off  in- 
stantly. That  sound  of  steel  upon  slate :  the  first 
live  note  of  the  war  I  had  heard,  at  Le  Cateau  in 
August,  would  it  round  things  out  for  me  as  it 
strove?  A  knot  of  soldiers  were  getting  a  hand- 
out of  grub,  silhouettes  muttering,  stamping  feet, 
before   one   candle-lit  window.     Then  again  we 


WORKING  ROYALTY  179 

were  in  the  open  between  the  poplars,  In  that  som- 
bre, funnel-like  avenue. 

Only  not  the  receding  walls  alone  now  raised 
the  winged  reports  on  all  sides.  The  non-com. 
flashed  his  pocket  light,  carefully,  straight  down, 
making  a  bright  circular  mirror  of  the  passing 
slate-coloured  mud.  I  did  the  same  with  mine. 
One  could  end  the  war  by  taking  those  small  elec- 
tric things  from  all  the  armies.  There  was  a 
hedge  on  our  right,  behind  a  wire  fence  which 
twanged  a  bit  now  and  then.  A  post  got  his  once. 
Down  our  single  file  I  heard  some  one  stumble,  ex- 
claim, and  then  a  lot  of  hard  breathing.  The 
heavy  scribe,  certainly.  What  a  time  he  had  had 
back  there  in  the  Houthem  belfry,  squeezing 
around  the  bell!  Could  he  fit  in  a  trench  if  he 
wanted  to  ?  I  fell  back  to  Reed,  beginning  some- 
how to  dislike  that  hedge,  and  to  talk.  The 
smallest  twig,  you  know  (I  said),  can  deflect  a 
bullet  at  right  angles,  and  only  ten  feet  from  a 
rifle  muzzle !  One  had  spoiled  a  shot  I  took  at 
a  bear  last  year,  a  cinch  — 

*'  Rechts!"  uttered  the  bow-legged  one,  cross- 
ing a  plank  over  a  ditch.  A  grey  thing  striped 
like  a  cat  scampered  across  the  disk  of  his  light. 
We  had  turned  through  a  broken  fence.  Dead 
ahead  now,  the  soaring  star  of  a  rocket-light  lit 
up  the  Deneckere  farm,  where  we  were,  the  regi- 
mental headquarters.     Long  low  buildings  made 


i8o  FIVE  FRONTS 

a  right  angle  pointed  dead  against  the  sweeping 
rifle-fire,  and  thus  a  shelter  from  It,  but  not,  nat- 
urally, from  artillery. 

The  colonel's  bomb-proof  was  dug  under  and 
against  the  nearest  wing.  Here  a  head,  thrust 
from  the  earth,  grunted  a  greeting  as  we  followed 
the  planks  through  the  yard.  Then  down  a  stair- 
way carved  In  the  soil,  a  drop  of  twelve  feet  or 
more,  with  a  turn  In  the  middle,  ushered  us  into 
Colonel  Mayer's  headquarters. 

No  crust  of  ceremony  to  break  there!  but  It 
would  have  been  the  same  if  the  twinkling  divi- 
sional colonel  hadn't  telephoned  that  we  were  com- 
ing. The  Bavarian  blue,  not  Prussian  red,  was  on 
all  the  caps  now.  In  that  6xi  5-foot  cave  my  eyes 
got  used  to  a  big  mirror  at  one  end,  all  stuck  with 
picture  postcards,  and  behind  the  green  shade  of  a 
lamp  the  whitest  man  this  war  has  allowed  me  to 
know.  There  was  something  very  Yankee  about 
his  thin  mouth  and  Iron  jaw;  hair  greyish,  but 
toothbrush  moustache  black,  as  he  sat  there  over 
his  maps.  Such  a  personage,  so  encompassed, 
does  not  unbosom  himself  recklessly.  We  were 
more  inclined  to  take  account  of  ourselves  first. 

*'  Well,  I've  got  my  story,  all  I  want,"  panted 
the  heavy  scribe,  who  had  stumbled  on  the  road. 
"  That  bullet  about  nipped  me  in  the  heel.  Did 
you  see?     Fell  flat  on  my  face  dodging  it." 

"  Kerr-kerr-kerr!  .  .  .  Keep-keep-keepf  .  .  ." 


WORKING  ROYALTY  i8i 

came  the  tiny  shriek  in  the  diaphragm  of  the  tele- 
phone receiver;  but  the  big  sergeant  on  duty  at 
it,  by  the  stove  in  the  dim  end  of  the  cave,  never 
relaxed  his  benign  grin  as  he  responded. 

"  Why,  these  people,"  said  Reed,  who  believes 
in  the  lawlessness  of  every  one  except  the  soldier, 
"  they'd  wreck  the  Garden  of  Eden  just  to  lay  one 
telephone  wire." 

The  lighter  scribe,  trying  all  the  time  to  smile, 
was  observing,  "  We're  awfully  far  front,  aren't 
we?  Everything  I'm  interested  in  is  away  back." 
He  meant  hospitals.  He  is  writing  a  best-seller, 
with  an  American  Red  Cross  doctor  as  the  hero. 
Then  the  pair  of  them  began  a  nervous  bantering, 
as  to  how  they  might  detour  back  to  Houthem  In 
the  morning,  to  avoid  that  bullet-swept  road.  No 
trenches  for  them. 

The  Colonel  was  telling  us  how  his  two  regi- 
ments had  since  December  2  been  holding  this 
most  forward  point  of  the  line  —  and  so  the  hard- 
est beset  —  close  south  of  Ypres.  They  de- 
fended two  sections  of  trench,  one  800  metres 
long  and  the  other  400.  They  were  waiting  for 
the  boys  on  their  right  to  catch  up  with  them. 
The  last  French  attack  had  been  made  around 
Christmas.  The  enemy  had  advanced  in  close 
formation  of  fours,  and  been  mown  down,  to  a 
man,  by  machine  guns. 

"  You'll  see  them,"  he  smiled  at  Reed  and  my- 


1 82        '  FIVE  FRONTS 

self,  "  still  heaped  there  between  the  trenches." 
This  was  the  farm  of  the  Chateau  Voormezeele, 
where   King  Leopold   had  kept  one   of  his  mis- 
tresses.    She  called  herself  the  Countess  M ; 

might  have  been  that  famous  one  of  the  more 
famous  hair-dressing,  like  as  not.  The  old  King 
was  certainly  a  character.  We  would  pass 
through  the  grounds  to  reach  the  laufgraben 
(approach  trench),  still  a  good  half-mile  from 
here. 

A  row  of  bottles  under  the  big  mirror  freakily 
likened  the  bomb-proof  to  a  barber-shop.  On  one 
side  of  it  was  tacked  to  the  plank  walls  a  queer 
Masonic  placard  with  the  eye  and  sunrays,  and 
"  Gods  et  mil  "  beneath  in  archaic  lettering.  A 
big  silvered  crucifix  leaned  out  from  the  other 
corner,  over  a  coloured,  Botticelli-like  print  of  a 
woman  In  a  bed  approached  by  two  obese  angels. 
All  around  under  the  ceiling,  in  the  gap  where  the 
board  walls  ended,  spindly,  waxen  weeds  had 
sprouted  and  grown  high  in  the  warmth.  Of 
course  there  was  a  Christmas  tree,  back  In  the  ser- 
geant's corner.  Talk  lapsed.  The  telephone's 
fitful  falsetto  was  a  thin  substitute.  In  our  sod- 
wadded  silence,  for  the  angry,  curt  detonations 
that  filled  all  the  darkness  outside.  The  eye- 
glassed  lieutenant  and  the  non-com.  had  vanished 
somewhere.  Supper  was  ready  In  the  other  wing 
of  the  farm,  and  above  ground. 


WORKING  ROYALTY  183 

We  ate  In  the  kitchen,  which  every  day  might  or 
might  not  get  Its  quota  of  shells.  Where  they 
had  come  through  the  roof,  whole  doors  had  been 
nailed  to  the  ceiling.  The  north  window  had  been 
straw-packed  and  sealed  with  boards,  that  south 
had  every  other  pane  broken  In  the  December 
fight.  A  brass  French  cuirassier's  helmet,  with  Its 
long  switch  of  black  horse-hair,  was  cocked  over 
a  gilt  mirror  on  the  pink-striped  wall  paper.  Be- 
tween this  and  the  big  stove,  we  sat  down  at  a 
round  table  with  white  tablecloth,  to  a  thick  soup, 
beef,  potato  salad,  and  naturally,  since  we  were  in 
the  hands  of  Munlchers  — 

"  Der  bierkeller,"  waved  the  Colonel,  as  one 
of  the  two  orderlies  who  waited  on  us  opened  a 
closet  behind  him,  dove  in,  and  reappeared  with 
armfuls  of  the  black  brau,  every  bottle  In  straw. 
Reed  and  I  were  taken  aback.  Already,  to  com- 
pete with  the  mounting  geniality,  we  had  planted 
on  the  table  the  pint  of  fizz  that  we  had  packed 
along  to  open  In  the  trenches.  At  once  we  saw 
that  hospitality  would  not  hear  of  our  broaching 
it. 

"  When  I  write  to  my  wife,"  said  the  Colonel, 
after  the  first  "  Gesundhelt !  "  with  glasses,  all 
standing,  "  it's  a  lot  I'll  have  to  tell  her  about  to- 
night." 

The  English  had  been  using  the  chateau  as  a 
headquarters  when,  he  took  it.     The  officers  had 


1 84  FIVE  FRONTS 

been  at  dinner,  scuttling  away  so  quickly  that  his 
men  sat  down  and  ate  the  lobster  mayonnaise  left 
on  the  table.  They  took  218  prisoners.  But 
probably  Turkos  were  in  the  opposing  trenches 
now  —  you  could  not  tell  for  sure. 

And  all  the  time  the  telephone  on  the  table  at 
one  side  was  peep-peeping  to  keep  the  big  sergeant 
busy,  and  on  the  other  an  orderly  was  turning 
down  the  covers  for  the  night  on  three  bedbunks 
along  the  wall.  A  bottle  of  anisette  appeared 
with  the  coffee.  We  squeezed  condensed  milk 
from  painter's  tubes,  just  as  we  had  spread  butter 
on  the  rye  bread.     Cigars  were  passed. 

A  youngster  in  a  red  cap  appeared  from  out- 
side with  a  bundle  of  letters,  the  mail  from  corps 
headquarters,  but  the  Colonel  waved  them  aside 
to  fill  our  glasses  again.  Two  soaked  young  mes- 
sengers, fresh  from  the  trenches,  one  in  a  very 
bright  helmet,  came  in  for  permission  to  go  to 
Comines.  "  We  report  that  our  work  is  done," 
they  saluted,  clicking  heels,  and  were  dismissed 
with  a  genial  "  Jawohl,  ja."  And  then  there  en- 
tered from  the  same  depths  the  being,  the  young 
Lieutenant,  who  proved  to  be  our  guide  into  the 
inferno. 

My  first  impression  was  of  a  swarthy  youngster, 
hardly  twenty  years  old,  who  probably  had  not 
shaved  that  morning,  grabbing  a  glass  of  beer 
from  the  table  and  reporting  to  Colonel  Mayer 


WORKING  ROYALTY  185 

that  the  machine  gun  which  we  had  heard  growl- 
ing from  time  to  time  belonged  to  the  next  bri- 
gade. His  black  hair  was  brushed  back  from  an 
exact  widow's  peak.  I  imagine  that  over  in  his 
native  Munich  before  the  war  one  would  have 
called  his  face  chubby;  but  months  on  the  death- 
line  had  wholly  steeled,  smoothed  out,  that  chub- 
biness,  except  from  the  round,  incredulous  joy  in 
his  eyes.  His  name  was  Riegel,  but  in  the  three 
hours  we  were  together  names  counted  in  no  phase 
of  life.  When,  after  we  left  the  trenches,  I 
learned  this  from  the  Colonel,  he  was  rather  scan- 
dalised that  I  asked,  too,  his  given  name;  for  the 
German  army  list  recognises  nothing  so  tender;  its 
various  Riegels  are  numbered  i,  2,  3,  4,  etc. 

Reed  slipped  the  superfluous  pint  Into  his 
pocket.  Riegel  unpocketed  a  letter  for  the  post 
with  a  telltale  air  of  nonchalance.  And  then  the 
Colonel  rose  to  shake  us  much  too  solicitously  by 
the  hand.  The  heavy  and  the  slight  scribe  were 
doing  their  best  to  appear  envious,  smug,  and 
funny,  all  at  the  same  time. 

"  You  know  that  every  night  we  have  men 
killed  or  wounded,"  said  Colonel  Mayer  solemnly, 
*'  going  back  and  forth  to  the  laufgraben." 

Why  rub  it  In?  Could  he  think  of  no  softer 
cry  of  wolf  than  our  mentor  of  the  General  Staff 
had  worked? 

"  Too  bad  that  you  will  miss  our  concert  to- 


1 86  FIVE  FRONTS 

night,"  the  Colonel  called  after  us.  "  We  have 
some  very  fine  musicians  in  the  regiment,  and  a 
piano  in  the  chateau  — " 

Concert.  What  did  he  mean?  Thus,  fool- 
ishly puzzled,  the  three  of  us  found  ourselves  out- 
side again  in  the  pelting,  snapping,  poisonously 
singing  night. 


II 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

The  rain  was  sheeting  down  through  air  curi- 
ously clear.  Riegel,  with  a  warning  about  my 
pocket  flash,  rippled  the  circle  from  his  own  upon 
the  wobbling  planks  leading  to  the  highroad,  and 
we  were  in  its  ankle  deep  grey  soup  once  more,  be- 
tween the  lofty  poplars.  We  kept  our  old  direc- 
tion for  a  full  quarter-mile  before  turning  —  to 
the  right  again  —  first  down  a  cross  road,  finally 
into  the  chateau  grounds. 

At  first,  the  spell  and  terror  of  that  highway, 
descending  in  ever  louder  metallic  voices,  concen- 
trated in  this :  the  ceaseless  stream  of  life  it  bore ; 
that  this  stream,  silent,  lightless,  as  though  lead- 
erless,  should  flow  on  through  such  a  hellish  dark- 
ness, so  serene,  secure.  But  the  night  was  its 
compulsory  time,  for  feeding  the  slaves  of  the 
trenches,  relieving  the  exhausted  with  fresh  forces, 
carrying  out  the  dead  and  wounded.  By  day,  a 
man  or  cart  appearing  on  that  road  might  forth- 
with be  the  hash  of  a  7.5.  And  the  night,  when 
artillery  cannot  aim,  only  brought  a  more  scathing, 
microscopic  blast  from  rifles.  At  the  furthest  the 
road  here  was  but  a  half-mile  from  the  French 

187 


1 88  FIVE  FRONTS 

trenches,  with  the  modern  arm's  even  trajectory 
two  miles. 

"  Rechts  gehen!  Rechts  gehen!"  The  mut- 
tered rule  of  the  road  echoed  every  moment. 
Two  "  goulash  kanonen  "  gritted  past.  Hot  food 
is  wheeled  to  the  very  mouth  of  the  laufgraben, 
all  hands  eating  in  the  darkness  of  seven  in  the 
morning  and  the  evening,  but  twice  a  day.  A 
stretcher  next,  the  limp  form  under  its  blanket 
rising  and  falling  too  yieldingly  to  the  pace  of  his 
four  bearers.  A  short  file  of  privates,  who 
seemed  to  stagger  slightly  —  stagger,  not  duck. 
In  the  loom  of  a  rocket  their  mud  coats  were 
ashen,  their  mute  countenances  copper-green. 
Not  once  did  I  hear  an  order  given,  see  so  much 
as  an  under-officer.  The  traffic  was  running  it- 
self. The  least  man  in  the  ranks  knew  his  stunt, 
automatically.  Here  at  last  I  realised  to  the  full 
that  organisation,  concentration,  mighty  spirit  — 
the  feared,  scoffed-at  ideal  of  the  indomitable 
German  machine  —  its  unhuman  perfection,  in 
duty,  by  discipline. 

We  had  turned  at  the  crossroad,  due  north, 
getting  the  fire  no  longer  enfilading,  but  straight 
in  our  faces.  The  rockets,  whose  glare  only  we 
had  seen  up  to  now,  appeared  as  blinding  green 
stars,  hovering  slowly,  the  small  parachutes  from 
which  they  hung  invisible,  down  a  clear  expanse  to 
the  right.     But  ten  times  as  persistent,  blinding,  as 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      189 

any  photographer's  calcium  flash.  The  dripping 
trees,  mud,  drenched  fields,  swam  and  glinted  un- 
der them  as  if  cased  beneath  glass.  We  zig- 
zagged among  great  pits  in  the  road  dug  by  grana- 
ten.  A  crumbling  high  brick  wall  on  the  right, 
running  with  us  and  so  giving  no  shelter,  ushered 
into  the  chateau  grounds. 

Ahead,  huddled  a  torn  mass  of  low  buildings. 
We  met  a  horse  and  driver  carting  cord  wood. 
"  For  the  Colonel  at  the  farm,"  remarked  Riegel 
casually.  "  But  little  wood  for  burning  is  left 
anywhere  else."  We  passed  under  an  archway 
into  the  open  again.  Close  to  the  ground  in  one 
house  a  cellar  window  glowed  faintly.  "  Field 
headquarters,"  said  the  young  man,  and  loosening 
his  arm  which  I  held,  *'  Sehen  sie,  Briicke."  A 
tiny  plank  bridge.  So  ploughed  here  by  shell-fire 
was  the  ground  that  the  incessant  rain  had  cut 
deep  channels  between  the  pits.  Yet  every  mo- 
ment we  veered  around  undrained  ones,  glossy 
ponds  some  eight  feet  in  diameter.  A  lone  sol- 
dier limped  past.  "Verwundet?"  asked  Riegel 
solicitously.  "  Nein."  Caving-in  earth  in  the 
trench  had  mashed  his  foot. 

Dead  before  us  rose  the  chateau,  or  what  had 
once  been  such  a  thing.  Even  as  lit  by  the  float- 
ing fire-balls  beyond,  I  have  now  a  mental  image 
of  it  confused  —  Maeterlinckean.  For  instantly 
such  an  association  filled  me;  this  was  the  very 


I90  FIVE  FRONTS 

country  of  the  macabre  master,  the  very  staging  he 
would  conjure.  Perhaps  the  sheen  of  the  park 
pond,  a  sudden  ghmmer  of  marble  limbs  through 
bushes  on  the  right,  aroused  it.  Low,  very  broad 
steps  mounted  to  a  series  of  stately  engaged  col- 
umns between  two  shallow  wings.  But  above,  all 
was  crumbling,  without  roof  or  cornice.  And  the 
moment's  shelter  it  gave  only  served  as  a  sound- 
ing board  to  the  streams  of  bullets  that  it  blocked. 

"  Exploding  bullets,"  said  Reed.  "  Hear  that ! 
I  can't  believe  they're  not  using  them." 

Then  we  rounded  the  east  corner  of  the  pile, 
for  the  last  and  hottest  200  metres  between  us 
and  the  laufgraben,  sloping  well  down  hill,  sheer 
in  the  face  of  the  enemy's  lines,  now  not  a  thou- 
sand feet  distant. 

You  reasoned  that  the  bullets,  which  detonated 
like  loud  toy  torpedoes,  in  the  mud,  on  trees,  on 
brick,  were  the  ones  to  ignore.  The  singing, 
zinging  ones  that  passed  you  by  were  the  devils 
that  the  next  instant  might  .  .  .  They  flew  like 
swarming  wasps  with  some  new  sped-up,  metallic 
buzzing  apparatus  —  creatures  that  having  begun 
a  concerted  assault  upon  you,  suddenly  changed 
their  minds  two  inches  from  your  face,  and 
swerved  away.  Yet  when  the  first  sort  pocked  a 
stone  a  foot  off,  or  the  tree  you  were  passing  on  a 
level  with  your  eyes,  they  bore  the  more  madden- 
ing, personal  challenge.     Th^ii;  perversely,  all  my 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      191 

inner,  excited,  and  exhilarated  being  turned  the 
more  vengefully  against  them. 

The  average,  the  essence  of  it  was  just  that. 
And  if  Riegel  stood  it,  took  his  chance  thus  night 
by  night  —  to  say  nothing  of  his  mute,  peasant 
ranks  —  why  shouldn't  I  ?  We  were  all  flesh  and 
blood,  each  with  but  his  single  life  to  lose.  Still, 
there  were  moments  when  mere  anger  curdled 
into  a  kind  of  giddy  desperation;  these,  once  or 
twice,  before  we  reached  the  bottom,  as  all  Flan- 
ders seemed  to  blaze  up  too  clear,  and  yet  con- 
fused around  us,  in  the  blinding  emerald  of  the 
floating  flares.  Then  hidden  eyes  in  the 
"  enemy's  "  trenches  saw  us,  live  and  paUid  tar- 
gets, dodging  in  and  out  among  the  shadows. 
Then  all  sounds  clattered,  roared  up  into  a  tumult. 

A  board  bridged  a  ditch  in  a  thicket;  we 
stumbled  across,  plunged  down,  to  find  ourselves 
knee  deep  in  water,  both  arms  outstretched  on  each 
side  into  the  banked  mud  walls  of  the  approach- 
trench. 

The  Lieutenant  led,  then  I  came,  then  Reed. 
Standing,  just  our  heads  would  show  over  the 
sides  of  the  earthworks;  but,  since  we  were  still 
face-to  against  the  fire,  it  might  seem  useless  to 
keep  them  ducked.  Yet  we  did,  for  the  first  yards 
of  floundering  forward  showed  how  the  trench 
twisted,  always  raising  against  us  a  collar  of  soil. 
And  that  floundering!     Long  ago,  of  course,  we 


192  FIVE  FRONTS 

had  doused  our  light.  Here  and  there,  either  on 
little  wooden  piles  or  thrust  into  the  walls,  planks 
had  been  laid ;  but  our  feet  only  felt  out  the  wood 
to  collapse  with  it;  or  stamped  into  the  side  soil 
to  slip  again  to  the  ice-cold  bottom.  It  recalled 
desperate  trails  I  have  followed  in  our  Northern 
wilderness,  though  by  day.  This  was  beyond 
anything. 

You  had  to  lunge  out  both  fists  into  the  mud  on 
either  side  to  keep  balance.  Even  so,  my  coat 
absorbed  the  mud-water  like  a  lamp-wick,  the 
splashing  plastered  our  faces,  Reed's  oaths  be- 
hind were  the  right  and  only  talk.  And  never 
two  feet  from  us,  through  the  ruff  of  earth,  did 
those  crackling  reports  cease,  or  the  taut  singing 
overhead. 

Suddenly  Riegel  chuckled.  I  had  waded  out 
from  between  our  six-foot-wide  walls,  bang  against 
a  great  muffled  creature.  And  *'  Bing!  "  he  wel- 
comed me,  quite  unawares,  till  he  turned  his 
bearded  face,  lowering  the  rifle  from  his  shoulder, 
but  keeping  the  muzzle  stuck  through  the  small 
square  port  In  the  top  of  the  mudbank.  He 
grunted  something,  as  I  tried  to  scramble  from 
the  water  into  the  small  cubicle  where  he  stood, 
hollowed  from  the  wall. 

"  Get  him !  "  I  said.  In  English.     "  Go  to  it !  " 

He  kept  on  blazing  away. 

It  was  the  firing-line  at  last,  all  right.     The 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      193 

man  was  only  contributing  his  little  whisper  of  de- 
struction to  whatever  neutral  fools  might  be  plash- 
ing about  among  chateaus  and  muck,  a  scant  four 
hundred  feet  away  —  across  that  thin  line  divid- 
ing all  the  hates  and  armies  of  the  world.  After 
our  long,  helpless  facing  of  invisible  hundreds 
shooting  against  this  fellow,  at  us,  one  craved  a 
champion  to  retaliate;  or  merely  to  celebrate  our 
being  in  one  of  that  pair  of  great  parallel  burrows 
that  to-day  reaches  from  the  North  Sea  to  Mul- 
hausen,  four  hundred  miles;  that  since  the  Great 
Wall  of  China  has  never  had  its  match  in  history, 
and  that  (Heaven  help  us!)  will  never  see  its 
death-dealing  equal. 

It  was  ten  minutes  past  nine  o'clock  when  I 
caught  up  with  Reed  and  Riegel,  who  had  turned 
to  the  right  (east)  through  the  flooded  highway. 
At  intervals,  banking  the  outside  of  the  walls,  rose 
the  flat  rims  of  armour.  Every  couple  of  yards 
or  so  came  just  such  cubicles  as  the  first,  raised 
enough  above  the  main  ditch  so  that  the  rifleman's 
knees  were  out  of  water;  and  each  man  in  them, 
dogged  and  impassive,  was  firing  from  time  to 
time. 

"  They  don't  wait  for  orders,"  I  asked  Riegel, 
"  but  just  shoot  as  they  please?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  And  for  how  long  at  a  time?  " 

"  Two  hours  on  duty,  then  two  off  —  to  sleep 


194  FIVE  FRONTS 

if  they  can  —  for  thirty-six  hours."  (I  don't  pre- 
tend to  quote  his  German.)  "Then  three  days' 
rest  at  Comines,  and  return.  These  men's  reHef 
comes  tonight  at  half-past  eleven." 

We  had  stepped  up  into  an  alcove,  longer  and 
drier  than  the  others,  where  the  firing  side  of  the 
trench  seemed  to  bulge  outward  slightly.  Riegel 
lifted  a  flap  of  tent-cloth,  crouching  under  it,  and 
bade  us  follow. 

We  found  ourselves  in  a  square  cavern,  a  sort 
of  big  dog-house,  some  5x9  feet  in  linear,  but  not 
four  feet  high.  The  walls  were  mud,  except  for 
boards  on  the  entrance  side,  and  the  roof  was 
black  tar  paper  under  the  planking.  A  young 
man  with  deep  black  eyes,  prominent  teeth,  and  a 
rather  startled  look  quite  native  to  him,  was  sit- 
ting changing  his  socks  on  a  flooring  of  straw.  A 
candle  burnt  on  a  cigar-box  sunk  into  one  wall,  a 
note-book  beside  it.  Opposite  him,  sitting  on  a 
heap  of  coats,  blankets,  cowhide  knapsacks,  by  a 
lighted  stove  no  more  than  six  Inches  across,  a  tall 
sergeant  held  a  telephone,  buzzing  its  Inevitable 
"  Turr-turr-turr."  From  a  peg  near  by  hung  a 
pair  of  field  glasses,  a  hunting-knife,  and  a  felt- 
covered  canteen.  A  bag  of  pink  candy  peeped 
from  a  side  hole  in  the  mud. 

A  tight  squeeze-in  for  so  many  of  us.  Riegel 
did  his  best  to  compose  and  unlimber  us,  stopping 
only,  with  his  warm  Bavarian  intuition,  at  the  ba- 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      195 

nality  of  introductions.  His  mate  of  the  socks, 
holding  up  one  muddy  boot,  stared,  grinned  him- 
self into  greetings.  Reed  seized  the  moment  to 
unpocket  the  fizz,  and  I  the  card  deck.  Neither 
one  spoke  English,  nor  ever  had  heard  of  a  dis- 
sipation called  poker.  Still,  they  tumbled  to  our 
teaching;  they  would  play  a  hand.  You  could  tell 
by  their  quizzical  stares,  as  I  dealt  upon  the  straw, 
that  they  felt  exactly  as  we  did  the  foolish  joke 
of  the  thing.  The  sergeant  as  well,  for  when 
Reed  had  the  cork  out  of  our  pint,  he  dug  up  from 
the  dunnage  an  aluminum  cup,  which  we  filled 
and  drained  in  turn. 

Riegel  called  for  a  new  hand.  Reed  drew  to  a 
pair,  the  other  lieutenant  took  three,  and  I  two. 
I  had  queen,  king,  ace  of  spades,  a  long  shot  to 
fill  a  royal  straight  in  tune  with  our  other  risks. 
But  I  failed;  drew  the  queen  of  hearts,  which  yet 
won  the  hand.  Riegel  had  nothing.  Reed 
hadn't  bettered  his  pair  of  trays,  and  our  host 
threw  down  jacks.  '  We  were  starting  another 
round  when  the  post  arrived.  A  dripping  cap 
thrust  through  the  flap,  and  the  same  orderly  who 
had  brought  the  Colonel's  mail  placed  a  bundle  of 
newspapers  on  the  straw  and  vanished.  There 
were  Lille  papers  of  that  very  morning,  Diissel- 
dorf  ones  of  the  day  before.  From  the  pile  the 
officer  of  the  teeth  drew  a  letter  with  very  slant 
handwriting,  which  absorbed  him,  and,   reflexly. 


196  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  rest  of  us  for  many  minutes.  Riegel  winked 
at  me  with  a  sly  unction. 

Then  we  gossiped,  as  much  as  the  German  lan- 
guage permitted  Reed  and  myself.  Several  points 
about  this  war  had  to  be  cleared  up  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet,  as  it  were.  For  instance,  how 
about  the  stories  so  sedulously  circulated  in  Berlin 
that,  in  contrast  to  the  rancour  between  the  Ger- 
man and  English  lines,  friendly  notes  were  tossed 
across  between  German  and  French  trenches? 
The  pair  here  laughed  Incredulously;  they  had 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and  didn't  think  it 
likely.  Only,  when  the  last  news  came  of  100,000 
Russian  prisoners  taken  in  the  East,  they  had 
torn  the  headlines  from  the  official  communique, 
wrapped  them  around  a  stone,  and  flung  it  into  the 
opposing  ditch.  We  told  them  about  an  officer 
we  had  met  —  he  had  lived  for  two  years  In 
Newark  —  who  on  Christmas  Day  had  crawled 
out  of  his  trench  and  spent  half  an  hour  chatting 
with  a  British  captain,  who  had  crawled  out  of  his, 
while  all  shooting  was  called  off. 

That  was  not  impossible.  Always  In  war,  just 
as  the  closer  one  comes  to  the  fighting  the  fibre  of 
men  becomes  finer,  so  in  proportion  rancour  and 
prejudice  against  the  enemy  diminish. 

"  If  the  end  ever  comes  to  this  war,"  I  said, 
"  It  will  begin  right  here  in  the  trenches." 

They  nodded,  amazed  a  bit,  but  seeming  to  find 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      197 

the  idea  reasonable,  as  if  they  wished  it  might  be 
so. 

"  Neither  side  is  fighting  for  any  idea  —  prin- 
ciple," I  said;  "but  for  trade,  and  to  cover  the 
blunders  of  chancelleries." 

"  We  are  only  defending  ourselves,"  retorted 
Riegel,  properly  schooled  as  he  was  in  official  sen- 
timent. "  Fighting  for  life,  for  our  ideal  of  em- 
pire." 

"  Idealismus,"  muttered  Reed,  who,  I  knew, 
was  restive  to  get  outside,  and  talk  sociology  with 
the  fellows  with  the  rifles. 

And  soon  outside  we  went,  to  the  bitter  end  of 
Riegel's  section  of  trench;  into  contrast  as  over- 
whelming, abstractly,  as  if,  physically,  we  had  at 
once  been  shot  down.  The  mud  walls  of  the  cav- 
ern had  smothered  the  outer  tumult  to  the  last 
whisper,  inside  there  in  a  wadded  silence  and 
warmth.  Now  we  were  exposed  again,  in  all 
the  wild,  flying,  racketing,  pitchy  darkness  of 
war. 

Once  more,  knee-deep  in  water,  we  slopped  and 
stumbled  along  that  crooked  groove  of  warm  hu- 
manity and  death.  Here  and  there  great  wooden 
reels  wound  with  barbed  wire  were  perched  on 
top  of  the  banks.  Some  rumour  must  have  got- 
ten abroad  to  the  silent  muffled  figures,  firing  at 
intervals  from  their  niches,  that  friendly  stran- 
gers were  about.     As  we  passed  them,  a  head 


198  FIVE  FRONTS 

would  turn,  and  a  hoarse  voice  mutter  drily,  with 
a  sort  of  gleeful  pride : 

"Ziinftig,  nicht?  .  .  .  Ziinftig!" 

Ziinftig  is  upper  Bavarian  slang,  equivalent  to, 
"  We're  the  boys,  eh?" 

A  huge  warm  paw  would  thrust  out  to  seize 
and  shake  your  hand.  At  intervals  shallow  re- 
cesses were  carved  under  the  walls  and  hung  with 
tenting.  In  them  the  men  rested  for  their  two 
hours  off  duty.  We  pulled  aside  the  flaps  to  see 
them  there,  sitting  hunched  on  their  hairy  knap- 
sacks —  there  was  no  room  to  lie  —  leaning 
against  one  another  like  ninepins,  drowsing  with 
eyes  shut  and  hairy  chins  on  their  grimed  bosoms. 
Unlike  the  quiet  General  Staff  trench  at  Arras, 
where  the  officers'  cave  was  hung  with  Persian 
rugs,  there  was  no  jocose  "  Restaurant  zur  Wilden 
Wanze  "  lettered  on  these  men's  cells,  as  we  had 
seen  down  there. 

"  Der  Herr  Doktor,"  said  Riegel,  lifting  a  flap 
in  the  inner  bank.  And  lying  full  length  in  a 
coop  no  bigger  than  a  coffin,  a  lank,  somewhat 
sallow  being,  the  regimental  surgeon,  crouched  up 
to  greet  — 

"  Amerikaner?  " — and  confide  with  the  in- 
stant intimacy  of  the  pits  that  he  knew  a  young 
lady  over  in  the  States.  Fumbling  in  his  knap- 
sack, he  drew  out  a  post  card.  It  was  addressed 
to  Miss  Annie  Goerz,  1304  West  Front  Street, 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      199 

Plainfield,  N.  J.,  who  doubtless  knows  without 
reading  this,  that  his  feet  though  often  wet  are 
never  cold  at  soldiering,  either. 

At  length  we  halted  where  the  trench  seemed  to 
turn  away  and  double  on  itself.  For  some  min- 
utes the  green  fire-globes  had  been  soaring  over 
us  from  all  directions,  close  and  erratic  as  his 
moons  to  Jupiter,  cutting  out  our  features,  the  very- 
grain  of  the  mud,  with  their  cruel,  ashen  light. 
And,  as  always  followed  such  irruptions,  came  a 
crescendo  in  the  whirring  and  detonations.  For 
once  I  both  dreaded,  and  hoped  for,  a  night  rush- 
ing of  the  position,  though  that  had  not  happened 
for  the  three  weeks  these  men  had  been  here. 
*'  Herr  Tisch,"  said  young  Riegel,  maybe  im- 
pressed also,  "  is  what  our  soldiers  call  the  strik- 
ing bullets."  Then,  in  a  lowered  voice,  with  a 
shy  eagerness,  he  said: 

*'  You  want  to  do  something?  They're  only 
140  metres  from  here  —  the  French  Schiitzen- 
graben." 

"  Yes,"  we  answered  baldly.     "  What?  " 

For  reply,  he  took  the  Mauser  from  the  fel- 
low in  the  scooped  place  by  us.  The  next  mo- 
ment it  was  in  my  hands,  with  the  muzzle  pointing 
through  the  eyehole  atop  the  bank,  across  that 
short  and  hellish  space.  Be  it  on  my  head,  I  did 
it,  fired  twice. 

Before  each  shot,  Riegel,  turning  to  a  figure 


2oa  FIVE  FRONTS 

behind  him,  unnoticed  before,  gave  a  sharp  or- 
der. An  explosion  from  some  kind  of  machine 
cracked  our  eardrums,  and  the  spark-dripping  in- 
candescence of  a  rocket-light  bloomed  and  swam 
on  high.  It's  useless  to  arraign  the  eagerness 
with  which,  as  in  the  dream  which  had  so  long 
held  us,  one  leaped  to  do  this.  Maybe  it  was 
partly  in  retaliation  to  the  deadly  storm  whiffing 
for  hours  around  us;  or  In  gratefulness  to  those 
Bavarian  officers;  or  mostly  In  homage  to  the 
brave  and  patient  men  of  the  pit,  a  deep-reaching 
instinct  of  brotherhood  to  be,  for  a  moment,  ones 
just  like  them. 

As  for  our  good  President,  and  his  warnings 
about  neutrality,  I  will  wager  anything  that,  if 
he  had  been  there,  he  would  have  made  a  good 
second. 

"  Get  any  one?  "  chuckled  Riegel  at  me. 

"  Call  it  a  couple  of  Turkos,"  I  gasped.* 
"  Different  from  bear-shooting,  this." 

"  Look,"  murmured  Riegel. 

1  The  chance  of  hitting  any  one  was  about  one  in  ten  thousand. 
No  real  partisanship,  naturally,  influenced  this  impulsive  yielding 
to  the  spirit  of  the  fighters  in  the  trenches.  The  reader  will  un- 
derstand that  had  any  man  been  in  sight  I  would  hardly  have 
deliberately  aimed  at  him.  I  cannot  consider,  either,  that  my  neu- 
trality, except  perhaps  technically,  was  in  any  way  violated.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  my  presence  in  the  trenches  was  of- 
ficially authorised  by  the  German  Government,  and  that  I  was 
subject  to  the  orders  and  suggestions  of  its  officers. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      2oi 

We  raised  ourselves  for  an  instant,  heads  and 
shoulders  above  the  crest  of  the  trench. 

"  You  can  see  where  we  have  the  two  machine 
guns,  in  lead-trenches  forty  metres  out,"  said  Rie- 
gel,  "  which  swept  the  French  in  their  last  ad- 
vance. They  won't  attack  again  while  they're 
there.  We're  keeping  them  from  sapping  out  to 
any  like  position." 

Yes ;  you  beheld  those  two  gun-shelters,  a  bit  to 
the  left,  roofed  like  enormous  bee-hives,  or,  rather, 
shaped  like  titanic  porcelain  insulators  for  high- 
power  transmission.  But  under  the  shifting, 
searing  light-balls,  they  were  the  least  of  the 
spectacle.  Fifty  yards  to  the  right,  too,  was  a 
cantilever  bridge,  with  steelwork  unhurt,  across 
the  Ypern  Canal.  The  horror  and  climax  of  the 
night  lay  in  the  space  between.  Bodies,  bodies 
unburied,  unrecognisable,  unless  we  had  been  told. 
Lumps  of  matter,  like  swollen  sacks,  in  hundreds, 
scattered  haphazard  upon  one  another,  heaped 
like  sacks.  Without  visible  flesh  or  clothing;  all 
mud-coloured,  drenched,  gleaming  terribly  with 
the  slimy  pallor,  like  verdigris,  of  that  awful 
field.  It  resembled  a  vision  under  sea;  as  if  one 
saw  through  a  green  translucence  the  encrusted 
toll  of  some  old  disaster.  .  .  .  Life  might  exist 
for,  might  endure,  even  justify  all  manner  of 
deeds,  purposes,  monstrous  perversities  —  but  not 
such  as  these,  not  that.  .  .  . 


202  FIVE  FRONTS 

Back  to  the  officers'  cave  we  sloshed,  and  to 
bottled  beer,  be  it  not  forgotten.  It  was  after 
eleven  o'clock.  The  sergeant  by  the  stove  clapped 
the  telephone  to  my  ear.  Distinct  and  far  away 
I  could  hear  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  a  piano.  So  that 
was  what  the  Colonel  had  meant  by  the  "  concert," 
which  we  were  not  missing,  after  all.  Some  one 
was  playing  down  in  the  divisional  headquarters, 
at  the  lower  farmhouse  —  the  Chopin  waltz  in  A 
flat,  I  recognised,  as  a  drip  from  the  tar-paper 
overhead  trickled  down  my  back. 

Soon  we  started  stumbling  and  wading  out  to- 
ward the  chateau,  I  being  the  last  to  leave  the 
shelter.  Alone  a  moment  with  the  sergeant,  he 
pulled  me  back  by  the  shoulder,  fumbled  in  his 
knapsack.  Silently  he  opened  under  my  eyes  a 
little  black  jewel  case  which  held  some  golden 
Bavarian  decoration,  and  his  Iron  cross.  Then 
he  handed  me  the  deuce  of  clubs,  which  I  had 
dropped  from  the  card  deck. 

Emerging  from  the  pit,  crossing  the  little 
bridge,  passing  the  torn  wrought-iron  gates  into 
the  noisome  and  ghostly  chateau  grounds,  I  had 
exactly  the  feeling  of  a  mountain-climber  who 
has  won  a  perilous  apex,  only  to  face  the  more 
dangerous  descent.  Reed  showed  a  splash  of 
mud  on  his  right  cheek,  made  by  a  Mr.  Tisch's 
landing  on  the  trench-top  at  a  level  with  his  head. 
But  it  was  by  the  crumbling  pillars  of  the  chateau, 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      203 

the  glimmering  marbles  of  the  pond,  that  I  first 
began  trying  to  dissect  the  secret  of  the  order,  au- 
tomatism, concentration,  the  grave,  stolid  spirit 
in  this  small  section  of  the  great  German  machine 
at  its  job,  that  we  had  glimpsed.  It  was  magnif- 
icent.    What  was  its  key? 

The  game  of  death  no  more  tensed  any  one's 
nerves  than  its  routine  seemed  to  bore  them.  Is 
the  German  divinely,  or  devilishly,  gifted  above 
other  peoples  for  this  business  of  fighting?  He  is 
no  Oriental,  no  fatalist;  nor,  with  his  sentimen- 
talism  and  introspection,  can  he  momentarily  love 
fighting  for  its  own  sake,  as  do  the  Celts  and  the 
English.  Could  it  be  patriotism,  discipline,  alone? 
Nothing  else  seemed  left.  And  if  it  were  these, 
then  they  have  been  carried  to  some  «th  power, 
beyond  the  grasp  of  men  who  do  not  know  the 
soul  of  this  race  as  their  own. 

Riegel  led  us  down  to  the  field  headquarters, 
where  we  had  seen  the  glow  in  the  cellar  window. 
"  Les  caves  du  chateau,"  welcomed  the  genial 
major  there,  rising  from  his  brass  kerosene  lamp, 
with  a  gesture  at  the  ranks  of  empty  shelves  where 
wine  had  been  stored.  That  very  afternoon  a 
granate  had  burst  through  the  window  and  taken 
the  foot  off  his  bed.  The  customary  orderly,  at 
the  regulation  telephone,  sat  in  a  Louis  Quinze 
chair.  A  gilt  Directoire  mirror  reflected  our 
faces,  and  my  trousers  were  muddying  pink  bro- 


204  FIVE  FRONTS 

cade.  Next  to  the  atrocities  on  sugar-beets  In  the 
war,  my  heart  bleeds  most  for  the  violated  dignity 
of  whole  antique-shops-full  of  "  art "  furniture. 
As  we  left,  there  breezed  In  to  go  on  duty,  night 
glasses  about  his  neck  and  code-book  in  hand,  a 
student-like  captain  with  eye-glasses  —  the  only 
officer  we  met  who  did  not  seem  to  accept  us  with- 
out reserve.  His  eyes  searched  us  with  such 
estimation  and  doubt  that  I  hold  he  was  no  Ba- 
varian. 

In  the  road  outside  the  grounds  we  passed  the 
night  relief  for  the  trenches.  They  came  down 
between  the  Inky  avenue  of  poplars.  In  single  file, 
muffled,  bent  forward,  huge-booted.  Except  for 
the  guttural  "  Rechts  gehen!  "  of  the  under-officer 
leading,  there  was  not  a  word,  not  a  salute,  as 
they  vanished  on  by  the  hundreds  with  shouldered 
rifles  and  a  stiff,  swishing  sound  of  clothing,  to 
that  next  cycle  of  their  tragic  routine,  which  might* 
always  be  their  last.  Then  a  couple  of  belated 
goulash  kanonen,  and  we  were  turning  in  at  the 
farm  gate. 

Outside  the  kitchen  door,  rose  a  three-foot  heap 
of  beer  bottles.  The  thin  scribe  and  the  stout 
scribe,  still  sitting  at  the  white  supper  table,  asked 
us  to  show  our  iron  crosses ;  but  they  had  no  vain 
hindsight  to  declare  that,  as  things  had  turned  out, 
they  wished  now  that  they  had  gone  with  us.  The 
Colonel's  concert  was  over,  the  men  of  his  post 


NIGHT  IN  THE  TRENCHES      205 

who  had  been  playing  on  harmonicas  and  hand- 
made guitars  strung  with  telephone  wire  having 
turned  in.  But  the  telephone  rang  up  to  an- 
nounce "  Parsifal,"  this  time  played  from  the 
very  hall  of  the  chateau.  The  artist  was  the 
Hauptmann  commanding  one  of  the  two  trench 
machine-guns,  a  lawyer  in  peace  times.  At  this 
nightly  diversion  by  the  regiment  of  connecting 
up  all  the  field  telephones,  we  had  heard  a  general 
and  two  colonels  perform  musical  acts,  at  least  not 
very  cruel. 

Between  numbers,  the  Colonel  would  cut  off  the 
line  to  ring  up  a  trench,  as  one  might  call  central 
to  ask  the  time  of  night.     And  you  heard  this : 

Col.  M.  (sipping  his  anisette)  — "  Ich  muss  die 
Verluste  wissen." 

Orderly  (repeating  from  'phone) — "  Drei  totd 
und  drei  verwundet." 

Col.  M.— "Gefangene?" 

Orderly— "Nichts." 

And  so  forth.  It  appeared  that  his  two  regi- 
ments were  three  ammunition  wagons  and  four 
French  officers  to  the  good  that  day.  Their  aver- 
age daily  losses  were  seldom  more  than  a  dozen, 
these  piping  times.  And  then  came  a  message 
from  headquarters  which  caused  the  good  man  to 
cross  his  legs  on  the  other  side  —  but  no  more.  I 
did  not  understand  all  of  it,  but  it  was  to  this  ef- 
fect:    Information  had  been  received  of  a  general 


2o6  FIVE  FRONTS 

shifting  of  the  enemy's  personnel  all  along  the 
line.  Each  regiment  must  ascertain  and  report 
the  character  and  number  of  the  troops  directly 
opposed  to  it. 

Did  it  mean  a  coming  attack?  Who  could  tell? 
Colonel  Mayer  shrugged.  At  i  A.  M.  we  all 
turned  in  on  the  bunks  along  the  wall,  except 
Riegel,  who  had  vanished  down  to  the  corps' 
base  for  his  three  days'  breathing  spell. 


Ill 


CONQUERED  FRANCE 


Brussels,  January  17. —  Never  before,  in  the 
opinion  of  her  cafes,  has  Brussels  at  this  season 
been  so  gay.  Uniforms,  uniforms  everywhere, 
and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  at  standard  prices  — 
in  the  cafes.  Plenty  of  American  relief  here, 
though  the  section  of  France  German-ruled  has 
none  of  it,  and  presents  a  very  different  picture. 
Here  citizens  have  recovered  from  their  pride  or 
fright  or  dummheit  or  whatever  the  Germans 
would  call  it.  General  von  Bissing,  Military  Gov- 
ernor, that  steel-eyed  man,  whose  eyes  are  yet  the 
most  penetrable  part  of  him,  bangs  a  fist  on  the 
table  and  exclaims,  "  Pin-pricks!  "  to  any  fuss  his 
subject  people  might  make  now.  Bars  "  close  " 
at  10  P.  M.,  but  roaring  "  speak-easies  "  have  their 
doors  swinging  into  the  small  hours.  The  sol- 
diery on  duty  tour  them  from  time  to  time,  to  keep 
tabs  on  their  friends. 

This  sounds  superficial,  cynical.  It  is,  but  in- 
evitably, as  will  appear.  As  guest  of  the  Ger- 
man General  Staff,  I  am  surfeited  with  hospitality, 
guided  by  its  officers  in  motor  cars,  told  what  I 
cannot  do  and  can  do,  according  to  a  rigid  pro- 

207 


2o8  FIVE  FRONTS 

gramme  from  which  escape  is  almost  Impossible. 
The  Bishop  of  Malines,  for  Instance,  must  not  be 
approached.  His  famous  interview  is  a  thing  we 
speak  of  In  whispers,  passing  a  copy  of  it,  sup- 
pressed here,  but  which  we  secured  no  matter  how, 
furtively  from  hand  to  hand  under  our  table  In  the 
Palace  Hotel. 

For  three  months,  a  twenty-fifth  part  of  France 
has  been  occupied  by  German  armies.  Most  of 
this  area  and  of  Belgium  has  been  possessed  from 
the  beginning  of  September,  six  weeks  longer.  In 
all  of  it,  civic  administration,  the  welfare  of  the 
civil  population,  has  been  In  the  hands  of  the  in- 
vaders during  that  time.  I  am  finishing  a  journey 
from  end  to  end  of  this  conquered  territory,  just 
behind  the  lines. 

Traditionally  the  conquerors  here  should  be 
hated  with  a  passion  unmatched  between  any  two 
other  peoples  In  the  world.  The  neutral  travels 
with  eyes  and  ears  open  and  hopeful  for  any  hint 
of  solidarity  between  soldiers  and  populace  —  for 
any  straw  of  human  feeling  to  relieve  a  situation 
Inevitably  dark. 

I  ha^^e  been  disappointed.  Slight  insight  Into 
the  Prussian  temperament  In  the  role  of  victor 
makes  clear  enough  that  the  plight  or  good  for- 
tune of  an  enchained  population  rates  nothing  as 
compared  to  the  triumphal  feats  of  German  arms 
as  shown  in  ruins,  ruins,  and  again  ruins;  with  a 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  209 

day's  diversion  to  look  at  concrete  bridge-building. 

Still,  straws  of  emotion  have  been  left  out  to 
grasp;  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  where  life  is  so 
tense,  unparalleled,  uncertain. 

A  week  ago,  as  we  were  threading  the  narrow 
streets  of  Namur,  under  the  forts  which  were  cap- 
tured so  quickly,  because  the  Belgian  General 
Michel  failed  to  relieve  them,  a  well-dressed 
woman  standing  on  a  comer  called  after  our  car: 

*'  Bochesf  Sacres  boches!"  The  word  is  in- 
sulting French  slang  for  the  Germans.  We  were 
identified  with  them,  were  of  them,  their  friends. 
Reporters  sent  thus  to  the  front  {sic)  before  had 
taken  care  to  tell  me  that  no  ill-feeling  existed  be- 
tween the  Belgian  populace  and  the  Germans ;  but 
that  it  was  "  dangerous  to  talk  English  "  in  Bel- 
gium, its  people  being  angry  that  England  had 
not  more  quickly  come  to  their  aid.  In  Germany 
favours  have  been  granted  certain  press  associa- 
tion men,  who  primarily  value  "  interviews,"  or 
who  for  other  reasons  are  partisan. 

After  luncheon  that  day  we  were  convoyed,  not 
to  see  the  Namur  forts  —  being  rebuilt  with  Bel- 
gian labour,  and  so  far  too  interesting  for  our  eyes 
—  but  to  the  site  of  a  conventional  churchyard 
fight  on  a  hill.  Given  liberty  afoot  for  a  while, 
I  lagged  behind  our  uniformed  hosts. 

*'  There's  more  of  them,"  said  a  workman  in  a 
long  coat,  jabbing  a  thumb  toward  us,  to  his  com- 


2IO  FIVE  FRONTS 

panion.  "  They're  all  the  same,"  he  satisfied  his 
scrutiny,  puzzled  that  we  wore  no  uniforms.  Two 
girls  came  along,  one  carrying  a  shopping  net  full 
of  packages.  Politely  I  lifted  my  hat;  the  pair 
surely  heard  me  beg  pardon,  declare  myself  an 
American.  Yet,  how,  indeed,  could  that  be, 
judged  by  the  company  I  was  in?  They  tore  past 
with  a  repudiating  mutter,  heads  sullenly  thrown 
back,  and  I  heard  the  thin  one  with  the  raven  hair 
snort. 

Yet  that  very  moment  we  were  facing  the  re- 
verse of  the  medal;  and  one's  hat  had  to  come  off, 
in  the  admiration  which  has  not  once  relaxed  these 
ten  days,  at  the  physical  order,  organisation,  fore- 
sight, and  thrift  of  the  conquerors.  Everywhere 
they  have  enrolled  the  unemployed  to  till  deserted 
land.  They  are  replacing  the  wrecked,  old-fash- 
ioned French  railway  bridges  of  brick  arches  with 
steel  and  concrete.  They  have  built  cut-offs,  sid- 
ings, new  permanent  ways  with  standard  grades 
and  heavy  rails  —  all  the  work  of  their  pioneers. 
In  the  miserable  hotel  at  Charlevllle,  where  we 
spent  our  first  night  in  France,  they  had  put  in 
steam  heat,  the  first  hotel  so  equipped,  I  wager,  in 
all  the  French  provinces.  One  may  rage  that  the 
Germans  Invade  like  Huns,  which  I  for  one  deny, 
but  they  are  remaining  like  Romans,  as  If  they 
had  come  to  stay. 

There  outside  Namur,  a  horde  of  stoop-shoul- 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  211 

dered  civilians,  each  with  a  red  band  on  his  arm, 
was  crowding  before  the  pay-window  of  a  brick 
building.  Judge  the  number  of  workmen  em- 
ployed here  by  the  figures  on  the  arm-band  of  one 
that  brushed  past  us;  he  was  No.  3398.  To  keep 
them  from  starving,  they  were  being  paid  half  in 
money,  half  in  bread,  for  work  on  the  forts  — 
to  be  used  against  the  Allies  in  the  chance  of  their 
advance.  "  And  they  are  glad  to  be  employed 
so,"  said  our  officer,  really  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  his  idea. 

That  morning  we  stopped  In  GIvet,  France,  the 
first  town  in  the  republic  directly  in  the  path  of 
the  German  armies  that  passed  through  Namur. 
Here  the  fighting  lasted  four  days,  some  67,000 
invaders  attacking  Its  fortress  on  the  Meuse.  We 
were  shown  over  it,  and  before  mounting  the 
glacis  to  see  the  thirty-foot  holes  —  through  old 
brickwork  —  of  30.5  siege-guns,  our  General  Staff 
cicerone  said:  "  This  is  an  example  of  the  most 
modern  style  of  fortification."  Half  an  hour's 
wading  through  its  debris  only  proved  that  no 
work  of  defensive  construction  had  been  done 
here  since  the  dates  over  the  casement  arches,  of 
which  none  was  later  than  the  '70's.  "  A  big-gun 
platform,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  a  squared 
space.  "  Of  cement,  of  course,"  I  said,  "  but 
where  is  It  now?"  "Ah,  It  has  been  removed 
with  the  gun."      (!)      A  fellow-scribe,  on  his  first 


212  FIVE  FRONTS 

lap  of  war  work,  kicked  one  of  those  ancient,  solid 
cannonballs  such  as  at  home  we  heap  around  our 
soldier-and-sailor  village  monuments.  "  Why, 
hand  grenade,"  said  he.  "  Yes,  a  hand  grenade," 
agreed  the  officer.  And  no  one  laughed  —  until 
two  of  us  tried  to  lift  it  and  couldn't. 

You  cannot  think  this  deception,  you  hate  to 
believe  it  ignorance.  In  all  politeness,  you  could 
but  congratulate  the  War  Office  that  no  valuable 
secrets  would  be  given  away  to  foreigners,  this 
trip.  Only,  and  I  think  justly,  one  may  feel  his 
amour  propre  stung.  You  would  like  to  yield 
place  to  the  ghost  of  Mark  Twain,  which,  not 
having  followed  (I  hope)  the  war  for  five 
months,  might  extract  something  beside  ennui  and 
pity  from  the  monotony  of  ruined  dwellings  and 
small  shops.  But  we  did  see  the  dynamited 
arches  across  the  Meuse  that  have  figured  va- 
riously In  publications  as  "  Bridge  at  Liege,"  or 
"  Blown  up  by  the  British  at  Complegne."  And 
the  town  hall,  which  you  have  seen  portrayed  to 
be  "  The  Linen  Exchange  at  Louvain,"  and, 
equally,  "  Bishop's  Palace  at  Malines." 

At  the  Hauptquartier  In  Charleville  we  messed 
In  the  railway  buffet  with  engineer  officers  repair- 
ing railways  and  bridges.  Here  it  was  significant 
and  heartening  to  find,  as  one  always  does  In  the 
ratio  that  he  approaches  the  firing-line,  a  lapse  in 
rancour  toward  the  enemy,  especially  that  fostered 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  213 

by  the  inspired  rumour  and  press  of  the  capital. 
This  policy  has  been  to  sustain  hate  of  the  Eng- 
lish by  offsetting  against  it  pity  for  the  French, 
and  repeating  tales  of  mordant  tolerance  between 
Germans  and  French  in  the  trenches.  Our  Ba- 
varian colonel  at  the  Deneckere  farm  laughed  at 
tales  of  friendly,  signal  spade-raising  from  the 
trenches  (phosphorescent  spades  at  night). 
Here,  too,  such  facts  were  unheard  of.  The 
major  next  me  at  dinner  smiled  when  I  told  him 
of  the  sentimental  letters,  featured  in  the  Berlin 
papers,  written  by  Frenchwomen  to  German 
officers  who  had  been  quartered  in  their  houses. 

"  There  may  be  single  instances  of  that,"  he 
said,  with  true  Prussian  candour.  "  Now,  I  take 
tea  nearly  every  afternoon  with  Monsieur  le 
Maire  of  this  town.  But  one  does  not  need  to 
be  told  how  any  population  really  feels  towards 
us.  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  nodded  broadly, 
"  we  know.  .  .  ." 

Civil  administration  and  the  local  gendarmerie 
remain  as  before  in  all  communes,  though  subject 
to  the  officer  in  command.  This  is  the  military 
custom  for  all  subject  civilised  peoples,  and  we 
ourselves  followed  it  lately,  when  in  possession  of 
Vera  Cruz.  From  Charleville  half  the  popula- 
tion had  fled  before  the  invading  armies,  on  ru- 
mours of  "  atrocities  "  circulated  by  the  Belgian 
refugees  in  September,  and  had  not  yet  returned 


214  FIVE  FRONTS 

—  could  not,  naturally.  This  seemed  to  be  the 
true  figure  for  the  smaller  towns  in  conquered 
France,  especially  in  the  region  south  of  Givet 
and  Longwy.  A  smaller  proportion  left  the 
cities;  in  the  Arras  region  most  villages  were  ut- 
terly abandoned  and  in  ruins,  having  been  the  ac- 
tual scenes  of  fighting —  it  is  a  habit  of  the  French 
to  place  their  artillery  in  town  squares  —  taken 
and  retaken  several  times.  But  France  Itself 
shows  little  damage  wreaked  because  of  franc- 
tireurs,  and  officers  continually  compliment  the 
*'  sense  "  of  French  civilians  in  not  defending  their 
homes.  This  in  contrast  to  the  never-to-be-for- 
given Belgians. 

"  But  this  is  a  time,"  my  major  said,  "  when 
only  the  criminals,  the  Apaches,  of  a  town  return. 
In  some  way  they  sneak  across  the  lines.  They 
come  to  cajole  or  steal  the  pay  out  of  the  men 
working  for  us.  We  hand  them  over  for  punish- 
ment to  their  own  gendarmerie." 

That  set  me  wondering.  Even  an  Apache  may 
be  a  patriot,  and  seizing  German  coin  from  his 
fellow-citizens  —  must  that  be  unalterably  crim- 
ial? 

We  walked  back  together  to  our  steam-heated 
hotel,  whose  proprietor  talked  German  too  much 
and  too  well,  was  too  spry  and  prosperous,  to 
seem  to  me  a  loyal  Gaul.  His  young  son  had 
just  burnt  a  hand  on  the  new  chauffage.     But  op- 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  215 

poslte  the  station  in  the  darkness  a  small  park 
was  wholly  railed  off  with  horizontal  black,  red, 
and  white  banded  poles.  Sentries  with  breast 
shields  bearing  an  eagle  on  a  sky-blue  field  stood 
by  their  little  black-and-white  zigzagged  sentry 
boxes,  which,  together  with  the  opening  of  in- 
numerable cigar-stores,  are  the  chief  visual  brand 
of  Teutonic  occupation  the  land  over.  One  house 
there,  though  it  was  almost  midnight,  still  blazed 
with  lighted  windows. 

"  Our  Emperor's  field-quarters.  He  is  there," 
said  the  major  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  confid- 
ing a  stupendous  and  secret  fact;  and,  come  to 
think  of  it,  no  one  had  hinted  of  his  presence  in 
the  town  until  now,  when  we  had  all  done  justice 
to  the  tank  car  of  beer  arrived  from  Munich  that 
afternoon.  "  And  the  Chanchellor  Is  naturally 
there,  also." 

We  strolled  through  the  utterly  void  and  quiet 
streets.  Eight  o'clock  saw  all  citizens  indoors,  by 
regulation.  One  had  not  even  to  look  at  the  signs 
to  know  that  the  wide  avenue  with  the  sycamores 
was  named  after  the  local  church's  saint,  and  that 
the  shops  were  "  Le  Magasin  du  Louvre  " —  or 
"  de  Paris."  You  knew  that  the  square  with  the 
very  chic  and  up-to-date  statue  of  the  republican 
goddess,  where  the  high  and  perfect  gables  of  six 
Louis  Treize  houses  cut  the  clear  sky,  was  the 
"  Place  de  la  Republique  " —  or  "  Constitution." 


2i6  FIVE  FRONTS 

The  town  verily  smelt  of  France.  And  then  from 
the  open  door  of  a  cafe,  where  we  had  seen  plac- 
ards advertising  that  same  Munich  cargo,  came 
harsh  voices,  guttural  sch  sounds;  spurs  clattered 
on  the  cobbles,  spiked  helmets  glinted.  Some- 
how, before  those  silent,  sleeping  —  or  sleepless? 
—  French  homes  I  was  reminded  of  the  change- 
lings of  northern  folk-lore,  of  the  troll-babies 
thrust  Into  village  cradles,  who  grow  up  in  a  week 
and  crowd  out,  starve,  the  peasants'  babes.  How 
else  did  they  feel  behind  those  shuttered  windows, 
the  soft  and  proud,  thrifty  and  Impotent,  old 
men  and  girls  and  youngsters  of  a  subject  peo- 
ple? .  .  . 

We  had  entered  conquered  France  from  Metz 
by  rail.  The  change  from  Germany,  through 
captive  Lorraine,  to  yoked  France  herself,  was 
impressive  by  a  very  lack  of  drama.  In  the  cold 
mists  and  rain  enveloping  the  Vosges.  Wire  en- 
tanglements outside  the  great  fortress  were  the 
first  marks  of  war;  then  captured  Belgian  cars,  ad- 
vertisements of  aperitifs;  a  paler,  more  rambling 
architecture,  ampler  windows.  Innumerable  Ger- 
man flags,  and  the  flat,  pink  and  fattish  faces  of 
soldiers  In  red  caps,  In  helmets,  close  to  the  car 
windows  or  bursting  their  striped  sentry  boxes. 
Tunnels  wrecked  by  the  retreating  French,  under 
repair  by  the  constructive  Germans,  glowed  with 
gasolene  flares.     The  cold  and  blooding  Meusc 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  217 

covered  the  dark,  swampy  meadows  of  Sedan. 
Limp  and  spiritless  loiterers,  old  women,  meek- 
faced  men,  appeared  fitfully  in  the  passing  vil- 
lages, with  their  mossy  tiles  and  curiously  soulless 
streets.  In  just  such  towns  last  August  I  had  seen 
in  full  flood,  before  the  advancing  von  Kluck, 
this  people's  terrified  flight  before  the  march  of 
war.  But  now  the  deeds  were  done,  the  exodus 
ended.  You  saw  no  burgeoning  mothers  wildly 
pushing  carts  that  toppled  with  chairs  and  bed- 
ding, nor  kiddies  nursing  kittens  in  their  cloaks, 
none  knowing  whither  they  were  bound.  Only 
the  unfit,  the  incapacitated  by  fortune  and  spirit, 
had  remained.  And  as  the  Prussian  train  rolled 
on,  an  ofiicer,  pointing  to  some  house  or  factory 
which  by  miracle  had  missed  ruin  along  the  way, 
would  say,  with  a  satisfied  unction: 

"  That  one,  you  see,  it  was  not  necessary  for 
us  to  destroy." 

The  day  we  left  the  Emperor's  headquarters, 
again  travelling  by  rail,  was  a  big  one  in  the  way 
of  bridges.  Six  of  them,  spanning  the  wide 
gorges  of  tiny  streams  in  the  Ardennes  we  were 
led  out  to  admire,  and  by  implication  the  engi- 
neer ofiicers  and  pioneers  rebuilding  them;  though 
German  firms  supply  the  material  by  contract. 
There  was  no  escape,  no  chance  for  a  word  with 
the  appealing  sodden  natives  on  road  or  street  be- 
low our  giddy  revetments.     The  grotcsquest  day 


2i8  FIVE  FRONTS 

ever  known  in  the  job  of  war-reporting.  Never 
again  can  I  look  a  bridge  in  the  face  without  cal- 
culating where  in  its  girders  the  holes  for  dyna- 
miting it  "  in  case  of  retreat "  should  be  bored. 
Never  have  I  been  so  filled  with  admiration  for 
how  mihtary  men  —  I  mean  our  hosts  —  can  dis- 
semble their  boredom  and  choke  their  sense  of  hu- 
mour, when  acting  strictly  under  instructions. 

That  night  after  we  reached  Lille,  that  enthu- 
siasm wilted  a  bit.  The  boom  of  artillery  in  the 
direction  of  the  English  Armentieres  met  us  at  the 
railway  station;  also  a  motor  car  of  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Bavaria's  staff,  with  an  aid  who  had  a 
sword-cut  on  his  face  and  smelt  of  violet  sachet. 
We  skirted  a  block  all  in  ruins  by  the  station,  and 
the  only  war  damage  that  is  conspicuous  in  Lille, 
and  were  put  up  at  the  Hotel  de  L'Europe.  Ex- 
cept for  the  manager  of  the  International  Har- 
vester plant  in  the  suburb  of  Roubaix,  only  Ger- 
man officers  lived  there.  Among  them,  when  I 
came  down  to  dinner,  a  round-headed,  dapper  lit- 
tle Hauptmann  with  the  sort  of  beard  that  is  en- 
couraged to  hide  no  chin  was  seated  in  a  wicker 
chair.  Suddenly  he  began  mumbling  something, 
then  exclaiming.  It  certainly  sounded  offensive, 
but  It  was  minutes  before  I  realised  that  his  epi- 
thets were  directed  at  me. 

"  Schwein  I  Schwein !  "  he  uttered  furiously 
under  his  breath,  the  phrase  which  in  Germany 


CONQUERED  FRANCE  219 

equals  the  genealogical  fling  that  you  must  use 
smiling  in  Montana. 

Mind,  I  had  not  opened  my  mouth,  spoken  a 
word  in  any  language,  though  I  was  wearing 
khaki  trousers.  I  first  got  wind  of  what  was  up 
from  indignant  members  of  our  party,  one  of 
whom  began  scorning  me  for  not  sailing  in  with 
my  fists.  At  this  another,  who  has  lived  in  Ger- 
many, asked  with  a  white  face  if  we  all  wanted 
swords  through  our  bellies,  for  assaulting  a  Ger- 
man officer  under  military  law.  The  other  uni- 
forms now  ignoringly  crept  away,  as  if  washing 
their  hands  of  the  affair.  And  we  gathered  so 
close  and  interestedly  around  the  little  fellow,  who 
had  shut  up  —  that  he  rose  and  left,  too. 

How  word  got  to  our  General  Staff  cicerone, 
I  do  not  know;  it  naturally  had  to,  and  quickly. 
Soon  back  came  the  dapper  one,  and,  quite  as  I 
expected,  began  apologising. 

He  said  that  lately  he  had  spotted  a  lot  of 
English  spies  —  that  seemed  to  be  his  metier  — 
and  had  thought  I  was  English.  Besides,  he  was 
very  tired  and  nervous  from  overwork.  All  of 
which  was  to  be  accepted  as  graciously  as  one 
could.     Then  I  tucked  in: 

"  If  you  thought  that  I  was  a  spy,  why  didn't 
you  report  me  to  the  proper  authorities  —  in- 
stead of  going  out  of  your  way  to  Insult  me  ?  " 

He  pretended  not  to  hear,  and  was  off  again, 


220  FIVE  FRONTS 

sincerely  hurt  and  sorry,  I  am  sure,  for  his  mis- 
take. 

But  what  is  one  to  think,  how  is  one  to  act,  if 
such  incidents  are  possible,  when  you  are  a  guest 
of  this  army's?  To  put  it  mildly,  What  is  the 
acid  test  for  a  once-sympathetic  neutrality  ? 


IV 

GERMAN  SWORD  AND  GALLIC  SOUL 

You  gladly  escaped  to  mingle  with  the  subject 
populace  of  Lille,  though  warned  that  it  was  "  bet- 
ter "  to  loaf  in  the  hotel. 

Three  days  spent  thus  with  open  eyes  and  ears 
left  me  with  the  acutest  memory  of  the  office  of 
Monsieur  le  Maire.  He  himself  was  not  visible, 
and  had  he  been,  in  the  anomalous  position  of  still 
holding  all  his  vested  authority,  he  could  not  have 
felt  himself  so  free  to  talk  as  his  assistant,  whom 
I  did  see  finally.  Soldiers  in  spiked  helmets, 
clinking  spurs,  stamped  through  the  mediaeval 
mairie  with  requisition  "  bons  "  from  their  officers 
for  him  to  sign,  commandeering  here  a  factory  or 
there  a  wineglass.  The  long  corridor  was  hung 
with  portraits  of  all  the  city's  mayors,  in  ermine 
and  military  medals  when  France  was  imperial, 
in  stern  frock  coats  for  republican  times,  epitomis- 
ing her  quixotic  history. 

It  was  not  easy  to  win  this  assistant's  confidence, 
seated  under  the  gloomy  lambrequins  of  Gallic 
officialdom.  And  never  have  I  seen  a  man  so 
nervously  worn,  so  hopeless  and  pallid  as  he,  with 
such  dire  circles  about  his  small  black  eyes.     But 

221 


222  FIVE  FRONTS 

like  any  Frenchman  under  stress  of  real  emotion 
he  coldly  held  himself  to  facts  and  figures.  Lille 
was  the  largest  city  of  the  richest  manufacturing 
district  in  France,  the  centre  of  all  its  textile  in- 
dustry. It  had  with  the  suburbs  of  Tourcoing  and 
Roubaix  a  million  people.  Since  the  German  oc- 
cupation on  October  13,  Lille  had  paid  12,500,000 
francs  in  aid  to  inhabitants  and  —  levies  to  the  in- 
vaders. One  quarter  of  the  million  had  nothing 
absolutely  to  eat.  The  city  was  at  the  end  of  its 
string;  it  had  not  a  sou  left. 

"  The  outlook  is  very  black,"  murmured  the 
official.  "  We  do  not  know  what  will  happen. 
We  see  no  hope  except  starvation.  Your  Ameri- 
can relief  for  Belgium  is  needed  here  a  hundred 
times  more." 

As  if  to  twist  the  buried  knife,  Lille  was  pay- 
ing both  the  wages  of  the  men  working  on  the 
new  fortifications,  and  for  quartering  officers  and 
troops  on  the  population,  the  latter  at  this  rate: 
10  francs  a  day  for  officers,  7  for  non-commis- 
sioned officers,  3  for  privates. 

"  Practically,  then,  they  are  taking  cash  from 
citizens?  " 

"  Yes.  But  it  Is  the  custom  of  Invaders,  their 
military  right." 

"  Speak  freely.  Have  they  committed  any  ex- 
cesses? " 

"  They  have  acted,"  he  answered,  without  a 


GERMAN  SWORD  223 

quiver  or  reproach  —  but,  Oh  I  how  the  words  cut 
— "  according  to  their  lights.  You  cannot  expect 
us  to  be  in  love  with  them." 

"  Yet  many  of  your  factories  still  are  running?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

I  asked  the  truth  of  the  story  current  among 
the  inhabitants  that  the  Germans  had  requisitioned 
all  the  flour  with  bons  (to  be  paid  after  the 
war  and  by  the  French  no  matter  which  side  won) , 
and  then  sold  back  the  part  of  it  that  was  spoiled 
at  double  the  price  paid  on  paper,  and  for  cash. 

"  It  is  true.  The  city  had  to  buy  the  spoiled 
flour  and  distribute  it  gratis  to  the  bakers.  This 
in  order  to  keep  down  the  price  of  bread,  for  the 
Germans  had  demanded  of  the  bakers  an  exorbi- 
tant charge  for  the  rotten  stuff." 

But  one  must  ever  bear  in  mind  the  right  of 
the  military,  within  humane  and  civilised  bounds, 
to  consider  first  its  own  exigencies;  and  to  ask 
yourself  m  hearing  of  oppressions  or  "  injustices  "  : 
If  these  officers  were  Frenchmen,  ruling  a  like  sec- 
tion of  conquered  Germany,  would  their  acts  be 
any  less  high-handed?  It  would  be  as  easy  from 
talking  with  German  officers  to  justify  their  meas- 
ures as,  by  listening  solely  to  civihans,  to  condemn 
all  in  a  blind  sympathy  for  them.  Still,  a  neu- 
tral's instinctive  sympathy  is  with  the  under  dog, 
and  thereabout  France  was  that  canine.  For  all 
denials  of  military  men  that  soldiers  have  no  feel- 


224  FIVE  FRONTS 

ing  against  non-combatants,  the  latter  are  natur- 
ally venomous  toward  them. 

We  cruised  furtively  about  town.  German  offi- 
cers met  us  with  stares,  but  never  demanded  our 
right  to  be  there,  so  confident  were  they  in  the 
effectiveness  of  their  regulations.  I  wore  the  grey 
Austrian  army  cap  that  I  was  required  to  don  in 
Przemysl,  and  often  it  brought  me  salutes.  Once 
two  officers,  who  must  have  spent  their  last  leave 
In  Vienna,  nearly  climbed  out  of  a  cafe  to  greet 
me,  calling  "  Servus !  "  But  not  so  the  privates, 
perhaps  because  of  the  red  notices  posted  every- 
where — "  Achtung !  Soldaten !  " —  warning  them 
to  be  wary  of  spies  and  not  friendly  to  strangers. 
Now  and  then  one  clattered  up  behind  you,  asked 
a  quick  question  in  German;  but  since  I  always  an- 
swered in  the  same  language,  he  would  slink  away, 
satisfied. 

Huge  requisition  notices  in  French  were  posted 
everywhere,  headed  "  A  la  population,"  signed 
by  the  Kommandateur.  A  yellow,  Kriegsnach- 
richten  placard  detailed  the  losses  in  hundred 
thousands  of  each  of  the  Allies,  but  with  no  men- 
tion of  the  million  and  a  quarter  Germans  to  date 
hors  de  combat.  A  horrible  example  this,  sup- 
posedly, which  loiterers  raised  shoulders  and 
smiled  knowingly  before;  really,  an  instance  of 
Prussian  crudity  in  stirring  apprehension.  The 
latest  decree  ordered  all  persons  owning  more  than 


GERMAN  SWORD  225 

100  kilos  of  food  to  report  the  fact,  for  purposes 
of  requisition,  plainly:  one  wondered  how  Ameri- 
can relief  would  fare.  Another  "  cancelled " 
French  mobilisation  orders,  directing  all  men  of 
military  age  to  report  at  headquarters,  under 
heavy  penalty  for  disobedience  or  for  any  one 
who  "  concealed  a  mobilisable."  Smart  scheme 
for  listing  workers  for  use  in  trenches  and  on 
gun  platforms. 

A  bony  horse  and  dilapidated  cart  loaded  with 
coal  staggered  through  the  main  square.  Half  a 
dozen  women,  dressed  and  stooping  like  beggars, 
followed  it  holding  sacks  to  catch  the  dust  that 
trickled  down.  Nothing  like  that  in  France,  you 
reflected,  since  the  Commune.  In  the  doorway  of 
a  shoestore,  where  I  had  bought  puttees,  a  grey 
dame  sat  knitting,  which  carried  one  further  back 
into  history,  via  Charles  Dickens. 

"  Go  and  watch  where  the  coal  is  distributed," 
croaked  she.  "  The  soldiers  pass  by.  They 
laugh  and  jeer  at  the  poor  women." 

The  goodwill  of  this  one,  who  with  her  two 
friends  whispering  at  the  stove  inside  were  the 
bitterest,  most  fatalistic  folk  I  found  in  Lille,  had 
been  hard  to  win.  An  American,  indeed,  was  I? 
How  could  that  be,  if  I  were  here  convoyed  by 
German  officers?  She  had  never  heard  that 
Americans,  too,  were  savages.     Heinf 

"  You  ask  about  the  English  prisoners?     How 


226  FIVE  FRONTS 

are  they  treated?"  repeated  she.  "The  people 
are  allowed  to  give  food  to  the  French,  the 
Hindus,  when  they  pass  through  here.  But  noth- 
ing to  the  English.  A  baker  will  run  out  to  a 
company  of  them,  offering  bread.  But  before 
they  can  take  it,  German  soldiers  have  rushed  up 
and  spit  on  it." 

This  was  the  only  slur  on  privates  or  officers, 
of  many  heard  there,  that  I  could  find  generally 
confirmed.  The  characteristic  French  generosity 
the  story  showed  gave  it  weight.  To  every  reason 
that  I  cited,  for  German  actions  as  customary  or 
inevitable  in  conquered  territory,  she  challenged 
me,  her  bloodshot  eyes  narrowing  with  suspi- 
cion— 

"  Vous  pensez,  hein?     Vous  pensez?" 

When  suddenly  the  afternoon  concert  of  artil- 
lery began  to  roar,  she  faced  me  with  that  grim- 
ness  of  her  race  which  at  its  blackest  never  loses 
cheer  and  wit: 

"  You  think  that  it  is  our  soldiers  who  are  re- 
turning? Well,  I  do  not,"  and  she  sucked  in  a 
corner  of  her  mouth,  tigerishly,  " —  not  just 
yet  I" 

The  ladies  of  an  epicerie,  where  I  bought  a 
hare  pate  to  take  to  the  trenches,  were  in  the 
shrugging  mood  of  resignation,  desperate  only  on 
mention  of  their  friends'  food  supply.  They  told 
with  a  rattling  humour  and  pride  in  their  nerve, 


GERMAN  SWORD  227 

how  they  had  hidden  in  cellars,  shifted  for  them- 
selves during  the  somewhat  comic  bombardment 
of  October.  Like  all,  they  had  parents,  hus- 
bands, in  their  beloved  land  across  the  awful  news- 
effacing  lines  of  battle.  Months  had  separated 
them,  death  seemed  the  likeliest  portion  of  the  ab- 
sent, yet  they  ill  concealed  an  envy  of  them.  They 
gave  me  addresses  of  sisters,  brothers,  begged  me 
to  intercede  with  my  German  hosts  to  let  them 
send  letters.     When  I  did,  the  officers  laughed. 

In  the  cafes  you  encountered  domino-playing 
business  men,  who  thawed  on  hearing  you  speak, 
as  they  would  say,  "  without  a  German  accent." 
A  hat-dealer  with  a  paunch  and  blond  moustache, 
was  quite  settled  down  to  the  situation,  "  tempo- 
raire  "  he  said,  and  took  a  strategic  interest  in  the 
shifting  scenes  of  fighting.  He  drew  a  worn  map 
from  his  pocket  to  point  out  the  towns  from  Nieu- 
port  south,  through  Ypres,  Armentieres,  Peronne, 
Lens,  Arras,  and  told  them  off  as  "  Anglais," 
"  Frangais,"  or  "  ne  sais  pas."  He  dwelt  upon  the 
protean  marvel  that  in  an  hour  any  one  could  walk 
from  Lille  straight  into  trench  or  artillery  duel. 
He  was  far  more  interested  that  in  the  bombard- 
ment 1,200  houses  and  300  million  francs  in  prop- 
erty had  been  destroyed,  than  that  folks  should  be 
starving  —  heartless  bourgeois  with  a  well-stocked 
cellar  that  he  was. 

The  pale,  snub-nosed  lady  at  a  friseur's  where  I 


228  FIVE  FRONTS 

bought  soap  had  last  seen  her  son  when  he  mobil- 
ised on  August  2d,  her  husband  when  his  "  year  " 
was  listed  and  he  went  to  Tours  in  September. 
Not  a  word  from  either  since.  The  invariable 
story.  What  could  one  say,  what  sort  of  hope 
hold  out?  What  to  conjecture  that  she  had  not 
a  thousand  times  passionately  rehearsed,  or  that 
spoken  by  an  alien  would  not  sound  banal  and  hol- 
low? 

"  It  is  sad  for  you,"  I  stumbled. 

"Naturally!"  she  exclaimed  with  the  first 
fierceness  in  our  talk.  And  as  we  discussed  the 
chances  of  her  people's  retaking  Lille,  she  kept 
repeating  with  eloquent  intonations  and  as  if 
slightly  dazed —  "  Enfin  ...  Et  enfini  .  .  . 
Enfin?" 

A  tobacconist's  wife  set  her  mouth  and  hinted 
dramatically  of  civil  mutiny,  if  things  continued  as 
they  were.  The  women  of  France,  said  she,  had 
before  saved  its  liberties  with  knife  and  blood- 
shed. 

The  girls  in  a  droguerie  where  I  was  telephon- 
ing gave  the  one  ray  of  cheer.  One  of  them 
boldly  wore  the  dull  bronze  arms  from  an  English 
soldier's  cap.  "  Ah  I  Les  Anglais,"  her  brown 
eyes  glittered,  and  by  the  deep  sigh  she  heaved,  I 
knew  that  she  was  thinking  less  of  their  military 
worth  than  of  one  Tommy  who  had  owned  the 
token  on  her  breast. 


GERMAN  SWORD  229 

The  local  newspaper  published,  Sous  le  controle 
de  Vautorite  allemande,  was  edited  by  a  Madame 
Tersaud.  Its  articles  ranged  from  discussing 
laisser-passer  regulations  to  "  La  Question  du 
Pain,"  which  concerned  the  German  persecution 
by  which  the  people  had  to  eat  rye  bread,  his- 
torically scorned  in  wheat-nourished  France. 
But  you  could  also  find  in  it,  to  show  how  life  was 
not  changed  altogether  and  that  the  French  can- 
not lose  their  unconscious  gift  of  making  us  bar- 
barians smile,  this  notice: 

Chien  perdu.  II  a  ete  perdu  un  chien  tigre  repondant 
au  nom  de  Phillipe,  le  ramener  Rue  de  Long-Pot. 
Recompense, 

Another  sought  a  gentleman  escaped  from  a 
local  insane  asylum,  and  thought  to  be  at  large 
between  the  lines.  It  suggested  that  scene  in  Ib- 
sen's "  Peer  Gynt,"  where  the  keepers  of  the  mad- 
house are  kept  in  cages  and  the  lunatics  set  free. 

It  was  a  relief  to  quit  Lille  and  visit  the  invaders 
at  their  best,  at  their  outlying  messes  or  in  the 
trenches.  The  courtyard  of  your  hotel  roared 
with  chugging  motors  just  before  daylight,  exactly 
as  had  been  at  Przemysl.  It  was  the  safest  time 
to  shift  reliefs,  and  a  car  skimmed  you  under  the 
dawn  moon  and  through  showers  upon  winter 
wheat  fields,  among  the  towns  around  Arras, 
wrecked  with  a  relentless  finality  that  only  Servia 


230  FIVE  FRONTS 

can  match.  You  reached  a  trench,  passing 
through  shell-torn  wall  after  wall  of  houses  in  the 
ghastly  village  of  Tilloy.  Here  one  fellow  with 
a  tiny  mouth  and  puckered  moustache  peered  from 
his  cave,  by  a  home-made  periscope  of  mirrors 
tilted  in  a  square  wooden  chute,  to  grasp  my  hand 
and  confide,  "  My  mutter  iss  in  Los  Angeles," 
when  told  I  was  an  American.  Or  in  field-hospi- 
tals you  saw  pictures  of  the  Kaiser  signed  in 
mimeograph  being  distributed,  held  in  motionless 
hands  and  stared  at  with  a  mute  groping  of  the 
senses.  In  the  abbey  farmyard  of  Vis-en-Artois, 
1 8-year-old  Saxon  recruits  were  at  drill,  none  more 
than  five  feet  tall,  showing  the  straits  to  which 
even  inexhaustible  Germany  has  been  reduced. 

At  table  with  officers  in  the  chateaux,  one  might 
have  been  at  home  in  one  of  our  Army  or  Navy 
messes.  The  war  to  them  had  become  routine. 
You  thought  to  be  at  the  throbbing  core  of  field 
opinion  on  the  conflict,  to  find  talk  of  its  strategy 
or  emotions  taboo.  Instead,  you  heard  the  per- 
sonal banter  of  any  such  trained  men  at  their 
tasks  in  peace  times;  gossip  of  their  English, 
French,  American  friends  of  yore,  an  incurious 
noting  of  the  time  elapsed  since  receiving  letters 
from  them,  eulogies  to  the  delights  of  London  or 
Paris.  You  were  lucky  if  you  could  so  far  extract 
a  comment  such  as:  "  We  only  hate  the  English 
for  having  caused  the  war,   which  we  did  not 


GERMAN  SWORD  231 

want."  True  or  not,  falsely  promoted  by  the 
Foreign  Office  or  no,  this  idea  is  held  sincerely 
throughout  Germany.  But  personal  venom,  vi- 
tuperation, is  always  beneath  professional  fighters. 

At  one  headquarters  where  we  saw  an  artillery 
duel  from  a  roof,  I  sat  at  dinner  next  an  abrupt, 
honest  Prussian.  A  type,  he,  with  his  long  thin 
nose  and  blue  coat.  It  was  a  Bavarian  mess  — 
Bavarians  are  simply  Irishmen  brought  up  on 
beer  —  and  he  was  being  ragged  as  an  outsider. 

"  Yes,  I  am  from  Berlin,"  he  winked  at  me. 
"  And  of  the  creme  de  la  creme  there." 

His  tormentor  was  one  of  the  four  present, 
who,  as  the  press-bureau  man  along  awedly  con- 
fided to  me,  had  "  enough  quarterings  to  marry 
royalty." 

"  He  is  our  komiker,"  said  the  officer  opposite. 

But  to  me  the  komiker  grew  suddenly  serious. 
"  We  have  to  talk  so,"  he  confided  simply,  "  in 
order  to,  how  do  you  say  in  English  — ?  " 

"  Keep  up  your  spirits?  "  I  hazarded. 

"  Yes."  His  eyes  dropped.  In  a  moment  he 
excused  himself,  to  go  up  stairs.  "  I  must  finish 
my  night's  work,"  he  said. 

The  unquestioned  simplicity  and  candour  of  the 
Prussian  is  mystifying,  as  to  its  source  in  real  In- 
itiative of  thought,  or  in  following  standard  mili- 
tary verdicts.  Take  the  question  always  upper- 
most to  a  stranger,  of  how  long  the  war  will  last 


232  FIVE  FRONTS 

and  how  it  will  end.  The  average  officer's  answer 
is  ever  the  same :  In  the  spring,  when  Russia  will 
quit,  sick  of  prisoners  lost  and  unable  to  get  more 
ammunition  and  arms,  so  that  we  can  concentrate 
troops  on  the  French  front.  But  next  day  you 
meet  the  fellow  who  swears  with  even  deeper  con- 
viction that  Russia  will  never  give  up.  "  Arms 
and  guns?"  laughs  he.  "She  can  manufacture 
all  she  wants.  Who  wins  the  war  depends  on 
which  nation's  money  holds  out  the  longest,  and 
Germany  has  the  most." 

A  neutral  profits  nothing  by  arguing  with  par- 
tisans. You  dodge  quoting  the  Allies'  figures,  nat- 
urally, and  that  Germany  has  merely  so  far  sub- 
scribed the  most  gold  for  her  war. 

But  candour  may  overreach  itself,  letting  the 
wish  father  the  thought,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
dumdum  exhibit  gleefully  made  to  us  in  one  head- 
quarters. You  learn  to  sidestep  such  charges,  to- 
gether with  "  atrocities  "  and  the  real  neutrality 
of  Belgium  business.  Only  ex-parte  evidence  is 
sought  to  support  cruelties,  for  which  reliable  eye- 
witnesses cannot  exist,  and  the  real  facts  of  po- 
litical matters  are  always  deliberately  withheld. 
Bullets  with  aluminum  caps  easily  ripped  off  were 
shown  us,  together  with  a  rifle  which  had  a  device 
apparently  for  that.  But  I  recognised  the  gun  as 
a  model  out  of  date  In  the  British  service,  and 
formerly  made  for  use  in  the  tropics  only;  also, 


GERMAN  SWORD  233 

that  the  attachment  was  primarily  a  cut-off  to 
transform  the  rifle  from  a  magazine  into  a  single 
shot  arm,  yet  which  could  snap  a  bullet  to  be  soft- 
nosed  for  shooting  game.  The  absurdity,  in  the 
rapid  fire  of  warfare,  of  employing  it  to  make 
dumdums,  since  seconds  would  be  used  to  trans- 
form each  shell,  quite  condemned  it  for  that  pur- 
pose. I  further  knew  that  many  English  colonial 
troops  had  come  into  the  field  with  whatever  equip- 
ment they  could  muster. 

Had  any  one  present  seen  a  soldier  using  that 
gun?  No.  Was  the  rifle  taken  from  men  ac- 
tually fighting?  Well,  they  were  captured  "by 
the  thousand,"  and  hundreds  of  affidavits  existed, 
of  photographs  taken  in  hospitals,  showing  the 
effect  of  soft-nosed  bullets.  A  steel  one  ricochet- 
ing or  at  very  close  range  may  tear  the  flesh  in  the 
same  manner.  I  form  no  opinion,  though  know- 
ing that  leaden  bullets  have  always  been  regulation 
for  the  side-arms  of  British  bicycle  scouts. 

But  Prussian  simplicity  came  under  no  such 
doubt  when  we  were  taken  inside  the  mediaeval 
fortress  of  Lille  —  worthless  now  but  a  miracle 
of  strength  and  architecture  in  Louis  XIV's  day 
- —  and  paraded  before  Indian  prisoners.  There 
were  three  turbaned  sheiks,  two  Rajputs,  and  one 
Brahmin.  We  could  not  speak  to  them,  nor  they 
to  us,  for  the  English  officer  uses  native  languages 
to  his  men.     Their  silence  was  implacable,  ter- 


234  FIVE  FRONTS 

rible.  Between  us  and  the  German  showmen  in 
their  elegant  grey  cloaks  and  varnished  boots,  they 
in  khaki,  puttees,  and  turbans  distinguished  not  the 
least.  You  could  sense  their  conscious  superiority, 
their  inner  oriental  thought,  holding  us  all  men 
of  Chandala,  as  we  stood  in  the  cold  drizzle  of  the 
North  staring  at  them  behind  those  bars.  I  found 
myself  estimating  how  loyal  to  their  lost  officers 
they  must  be,  how  they  despised  their  keepers, 
whose  glee  was  childish  in  this  show  maintained  to 
score  the  baseness  of  pitting  brown  men  against 
white.  You  felt  the  callousness  of  the  Teuton, 
his  inability  to  put  himself  in  the  place  of  other 
peoples,  to  see  through  any  eyes  except  his  own, 
which  is  the  secret  of  his  incessant  lapses  in  di- 
plomacy. 

The  same  crudity  was  impressive  on  the  old 
King  of  Bavaria's  birthday,  at  its  celebration  to 
which  we  were  led  in  a  great  square  of  the  city. 
It  was  a  grand  review  before  the  Crown  Prince, 
a  very  orgy  of  goose-stepping,  of  massed  troops 
singing  old  German  war  songs,  as  they  filed  past 
officers  at  stiff  attention,  wasp-waisted  like  danc- 
ing masters.  Rank  after  rank  of  simple  peasant 
faces,  utterly  blank  with  homage  in  democratic 
eyes,  turned  jerkily  to  face  them,  like  the  wooden 
automata  of  some  vast  mechanical  toy.  I  turned 
to  look  behind,  to  see  how  many  Lilleois  had 
gathered  to  witness  this  paradigm  of  power  and 


GERMAN  SWORD  235 

aristocracy.  Hardly  one.  Only  a  crowd  of  gam- 
ins lined  the  square,  staring  as  at  some  novel  cir- 
cus parade.  The  adults  and  especially  all  women 
remained  behind  the  closed  doors  of  shop  or  home. 

The  "  fall  "  of  Lille  had,  as  I  have  hinted,  its 
diverting  side.  For  the  man-in-the-street,  indeed, 
the  occupation  of  a  city  by  an  invading  army  in  this 
war  is  like  nothing  more  than  the  advent  of 
Knights  of  Pythias  to  their  convention  town.  But 
with  this  difference:  the  military  guests  have  to 
supply  their  own  flags  and  decorations.  Here  the 
so-called  bombardment  lasted  off  and  on  between 
the  loth  and  12th  of  October,  though  operations 
began  about  the  4th,  when  the  English  troops  with- 
drew, leaving  some  3,000  French,  mostly  Africans, 
in  the  city  and  suburbs.  For  a  week  the  author- 
ities wavered  as  to  whether  Lille  was  an  open  or 
a  closed  town,  could  or  could  not  be  bombarded. 
Daily,  detachments  of  Uhlans  galloped  about, 
fearlessly  hitching  their  horses  outside  the  French 
headquarters,  as  they  went  in  to  receive  contra- 
dictory or  equivocal  answers.  The  French  cav- 
alry always  managed  to  miss  the  enemy;  one  force 
would  turn  the  end  of  a  street  just  as  the  other 
entered  it.  Once  two  foot  detachments,  each 
scurrying  out  of  town  by  trains  —  still  running, 
mind  —  met  at  the  ticket-office  in  the  railway  sta- 
tion, for  a  fray  and  slaughter. 

"  Out  in  my  suburb,"  the  American  manager  of 


236  FIVE  FRONTS 

the  harvester  factory  told  me,  "all  I  was  scared 
about  was  being  caught  between  two  gangs  chasing 
each  other  around.  Made  me  sort  of  nervous, 
that,  and  to  see  coon  officers  on  horseback  drawing 
guns." 

Lille  was  finally  declared  closed.  The  bom- 
bardment began  one  Sunday  night,  and  though  the 
Germans  passed  the  word  that  it  would  cease  in 
the  morning,  firing  continued  all  Monday.  Ex- 
actly one  civilian  was  killed. 

And  to-day  in  Brussels,  as  I  started  by  saying, 
life  Is  no  more  punctilious.  Near  daylight  this 
morning,  in  the  King  of  Spain  bar,  I  was  listening 
to  two  youths  as  they  drank  Scotch  whisky.  One 
was  a  German  under-officer,  the  other  a  Belgian 
private,  who,  a  straggler  from  the  defense  of  Ant- 
werp had  since  been  rusticating  in  civilian  clothes. 

"  To-morrow  I  leave  to  join  my  regiment  in 
France,"  I  heard  the  Belgian  confide. 

"AchI"  said  the  German,  "but  how  can 
you?" 

"  It  Is  easy  enough.  I  have  an  American  pass- 
port, of  course,  such  as  any  one  can  get.  It  will 
take  me  across  the  Dutch  frontier.  I  go  by 
steamer  to  Folkestone  and  thence  to  Havre." 

"Good-luck  to  you.  Pros'tl  And  may  we 
meet  as  happily,  some  day,  on  the  firing-line." 
Laughing,  they  slapped  one  another  on  the  back. 

Here  the  one  flavour  of  war  or  conquest  you 


GERMAN  SWORD  237 

can  get  is  to  whisper  "  Sabotage !  "  when  dining 
with  officers,  and  the  Belgian  waiter  is  slow  in 
bringing  your  oysters.  And  yesterday,  at  Liege, 
our  good  General  Staff  hosts  themselves  finally 
tumbled  to  the  joke  of  our  junket.  Surrounded 
by  what  history  is  making  the  most  famous  forts 
in  the  world,  we  were  whisked  away  to  view  — 
a  thirteenth-century  church  portico  in  a  village 
called  Huy. 
Whew  I 


PART  V 
WITH  THE  RUSSIANS  IN  BUKOWINA 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR 

Novo  Sliatsa.  Bessarabia  (Russia),  February 
19. —  Three  days  spent  with  Cossacks  on  the  job, 
at  their  midwinter  fighting  around  Czernowitz, 
as  I  retreated  with  them  through  Bukowina,  now 
make  the  climax  of  such  adventures  as  entering 
the  city  between  Russian  evacuation  and  Austrian 
occupation,  much  as  one  plunges  into  the  uncanny 
dead-centre  of  a  typhoon,  and  crossing  between 
the  two  enemies'  lines  by  a  burned  pontoon  bridge 
on  the  River  Pruth.  And  I  had  the  friendship 
during  battle  of  no  less  a  character  than  the 
*'  notorious "  Shechin,  Captain  of  Hussars,  the 
"  bandit  of  the  first  rank,"  as  he  is  called  in 
Austria,  who  for  three  months  held  all  Bukowina 
with  a  handful  of  men;  who  loves  life,  hates  no 
one,  and  regards  his  feats  as  something  of  a  tre- 
mendous joke. 

Neutral  Rumania,  with  Czernowitz  in  striking- 
distance  of  her  northern  tip,  made  these  risks 
possible.  Hats  off  to  her  for  that,  though  her 
attitude  toward  joining  the  war,  like  a  crow  wait- 
ing to  pounce  down  upon  spoils  won  by  others, 
makes  hard  any  sympathy  for  her  chocolate  sol- 

241 


242  FIVE  FRONTS 

diers,  who  want  Transylvania  without  fighting  for 
it. 

In  a  nutshell,  the  Bukowina  campaign  is  pivotal 
because  if  the  Russians  hold  it  Rumania  probably 
will  join  them;  if  not,  she  won't  —  this,  aside 
from  Rumania's  ever  ready  me-too  to  any  jump 
by  her  big  brother,  Italy.  Hence  the  feverish 
Austrian  effort  to  win  back  the  province,  the  ab- 
surd official  exaggeration  of  the  numbers  fighting 
and  lost  on  both  sides  there.  But  I  have  tales 
more  human  and  colourful  than  politics  or 
strategy. 

Dl.  Take  Jonescu,  ex-Premier  of  Rumania, 
a  greyish  plump  man  of  Macedonian  blood,  far 
too  wise  and  able  for  his  country,  gave  the  de- 
cisive cue  one  day  in  Bucharest  to  a  young  Ameri- 
can named  Curtin,  and  myself.  At  present  I  am 
barred  from  following  the  Austrian  army  for 
having  shown  sympathy  for  Servia  in  these  let- 
ters; my  veracity  has  not  been  questioned  for  what 
I  reported  there  and  in  Slavonia;  but  in  the  flat- 
tering phrase  of  the  German  Foreign  Office: 
"  Ihre  Artikel  sind  nicht  freundschaftlich  genug." 

I  got  the  forbidding  wire  as  I  was  leaving  the 
Balkan  capital  for  a  promised  German  Staff  ex- 
pedition to  von  Hindenburg  and  Poland.  And 
Russian  army  rules  against  reporters  are  as  iron- 
clad as  England's;  while  Rumania,  famed  always 
as  the  "  tightest "  country  in  Europe  toward  for- 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       243 

eigners,  had  her  Bukowina  frontier  locked  like 
the  German  jaw  on  Belgium. 

"  But  visit  the  Russian  Legation,"  suggested  Dl. 
Jonescu.  "  I  think  the  Minister  will  get  you  per- 
mission from  the  Governor  of  Czemowitz  to  go 
there.  In  that  case,  our  police  would  let  you 
pass  the  frontier." 

If  true,  it  meant  a  chance  to  see  fighting,  could 
we  strike  battle  lines  beyond  the  two  border  towns 
of  Mihaleni  or  Mamornitza.  The  Russian  Min- 
ister the  same  day  left  mysteriously  for  Petro- 
grad,  but  his  Charge  d'Affaires  promised  to  wire 
the  Bukowina  capital,  and  assured  Curtin  and  me 

—  how  guilessly  I  do  not  know,  for  the  Governor 
was  then  probably  decamping  for  this  filthy  town 

—  that  the  request  should  be  granted.  But  this 
would  take  four  days.     They  yielded  nothing. 

Finally,  last  Monday  night,  with  no  credentials 
beyond  passports,  we  held  up  both  Dl.  Panaitescu, 
head  of  the  Rumanian  secret  police,  and  our  own 
Legation,  at  the  point  of  the  pencil,  as  It  were; 
the  first  we  tackled  on  the  plea  that  Russian  per- 
mission was  on  the  way,  wherefore  the  police  chief 
wired  the  two  said  towns  to  let  us  pass,  and  our 
own  Minister  wrote  a  paper  empowering  us  to 
investigate  Americans  In  Czernowltz  and  vicinity. 
It  was  in  English,  which  no  patrol  of  either  army 
had  a  chance  of  understanding;  but  red  seals 
stamped  with  the  American  Eagle  work  wonders, 


244  FIVE  FRONTS 

no  matter  how  reasonlessly,  and  it  bore  one. 
Thus  next  noon  found  us  twisting  on  a  jerkwater 
line  three  hundred  miles  north  of  the  devilish  "  lit- 
tle Paris  "  that  Bucharest  thinks  it  is,  across  the 
snowy  hills  of  Moldavia,  into  the  terminal  town 
of  Dorohoi. 

Typical  of  strangers'  treatment  in  Rumania  was 
our  greeting  there.  As  we  drove  up  from  the 
station,  a  dolled-up  soldier  burst  out  of  his  sentry 
box  to  gesticulate  that  we  must  visit  the  prefect 
of  police  at  once.  Before  we  could  reach  his  office, 
a  peasant  in  round  black  cap  and  sheepskins  hove 
out  of  a  cafe  brandishing  a  whip,  to  air  his  knowl- 
edge of  German  to  the  same  effect.  But  we  won 
the  local  official. 

The  question  then  was  whether  to  choose 
Mihaleni  or  Mamornitza  to  enter  Bukowina. 
We  wanted  to  strike  Russian,  not  Austrian  troops ; 
and  to  calculate  how  far  across  the  Sereth  River 
the  latter  were  was  beyond  my  strategy,  knowing 
the  customs  of  Austrian  officers  and  being  Igno- 
rant of  the  number  of  coffee-houses  In  the  prov- 
ince. Finally  the  prefect  banged  a  fist  on  his  desk 
and  averred  "  officially  "  that  they  were  opposite 
the  former  town;  so  we  cast  the  die  for  Mamor- 
nitza, on  the  Pruth,  some  25  kilometres  east  of 
Czernowltz  Itself,  and  began  the  voyage  thither 
In  a  sea-going  hack  drawn  by  four  ponies  hitched 
abreast,  like  a  circus  chariot-race. 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       245 

Forty-four  kilometres  was  the  distance,  over 
glittering  fields  where  the  maize  stubble  was  re- 
appearing under  the  sun  of  that  first  February  day 
when  you  feel  the  backbone  of  winter  broken.  It 
was  through  a  land  of  high-thatched  huts,  queerly 
Japanese,  except  that  their  walls  of  mud  smoothed 
pver  wattle  and  painted  blue  all  had  sagged  askew. 
Yet  it  was  a  clean  land  of  security  and  peace,  In 
pitiful  contrast  to  the  war-branded  homes  in  store 
for  us  across  the  border;  a  land  where  the  folk 
drank  wine  from  the  Danube  vineyards,  and  Spitz- 
tailed  dogs  and  mottled  pigs  drowsed  on  the  door- 
steps. 

Down  a  long  hill  Into  the  wide  Pruth  valley, 
with  the  white,  eye-aching  horizons  of  Russia 
ahead;  a  long  turn  west  up  the  river,  and  at  last 
the  hovels  of  Mamornitza,  where  horizontal  fron- 
tier poles,  as  at  a  railway  crossing,  barred  the 
road.  First  Rumania's,  striped  red,  yellow,  and 
blue;  then  a  rickety  wooden  bridge  over  a  creek, 
and  the  like  Austrian  barber-pole  effect.  In  black 
and  orange.  A  rod  back  of  each  in  their  respec- 
tive countries,  pretentious  stucco  custom  houses 
dominated  the  frozen  muck.  Peasants  with 
loaded  sleds  and  hand-carts,  or  back-packing  grain 
sacks,  crowded  both  sides  of  the  Rumanian  barrier. 
But  for  us  the  burning  matter  was.  Who  guarded 
the  black  and  orange  pole?  There  the  striped  sen- 
try-box gaped  empty.     Not  a  soul  visible  In  the 


246  FIVE  FRONTS 

Austrian  village,  and  over  the  sign  "  K.  u.  k. 
Zollamt  "  on  the  Imperial  building,  windows  were 
smashed,  our  first  hint  of  the  world  war  in  this 
remote  corner  of  the  East. 

"  No  one  has  been  there  for  a  week,"  a  flat- 
nosed,  swarthy  soldier,  rifle  in  hand,  told  us  in 
German.  "  Three  days  ago  two  Cossacks  burnt 
and  looted  the  hotel."  And  he  continued  hum- 
ming the  tune  that  we  had  interrupted,  which,  by 
heaven  knows  what  cosmic  linking,  was  "  Under 
the  Bamboo  Tree." 

We  paid  our  driver  and  made  for  the  Rumanian 
custom  house.  The  commissioner,  true  to  na- 
tional habit,  was  away  somewhere,  but  might  re- 
turn in  an  hour,  two  hours,  or  next  morning.  So 
said  his  moustached  and  dapper  clerk,  as  he 
penned  under  a  lamp  a  lengthy  paper,  which  he 
called  a  "  dossier,"  indicting  a  sloe-eyed  youngster 
for  smuggling  contraband  —  sugar.  If  I  remem- 
ber. The  chief  had  orders  to  let  us  pass  the 
frontier,  but  we  must  see  him  first.  There  would 
be  a  poker  game  that  night  with  the  quarantine 
doctor,  and  we  were  welcome.  We  waited,  two, 
three,  infuriating  hours.  At  last  we  floundered 
in  the  darkness  up  the  road  and  banged  on  the 
door  of  the  first  lighted  hut,  to  demand  a  lodg- 
ing. 

It  was  no  inn,  but  a  stout  woman  In  an  em- 
broidered waist  cooked  us  eggs,  produced  vin  alba 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       247 

to  drink,  and  let  us  sleep  on  sofas  in  a  back  room, 
after  she  had  shooed  out  the  card  and  drinking 
party  of  a  fat  colonel  in  a  white  astrakan  cap,  a 
girl  in  black  with  gipsy  earrings,  and  a  pock- 
marked refugee  from  Czernowitz.  He  had  kept 
a  restaurant  there,  and  foretold  fearsomely  a  bat- 
tle all  about  us  for  next  morning  or  the  day  after. 
The  Russians  still  held  Czernowitz,  he  said,  but 
Austrian  Uhlans  had  been  seen  that  afternoon  in 
Mologhia,  ten  kilometres  south  from  the  road  to 
the  city  that  we  should  follow.  Waking  in  the 
night,  I  kept  hearing  remote  sounds  from  across 
the  Pruth,  but  foolishly  failed  to  read  their  mean- 
ing then :  barking  dogs,  the  distant  creak  and  rat- 
tle of  heavy  axletrees.  Some  rooster  with  a  very 
dissipated  crow  brought  a  wan  day  of  drifting 
snowflakes,  and  with  It  the  resolve  over  our  host- 
ess's coffee  to  defy  the  dapper  customs  clerk,  flout 
the  barber-poles,  even  swim  the  boundary  creek, 
if  his  boss  had  not  returned  and  the  guards  kept 
us  from  crossing. 

Then  I  put  all  the  money  I  had  into  my  shoes, 
and  never  was  I  afterwards  so  ashamed  of  a  pre- 
caution. But  all  through  the  eastern  war  scene, 
until  you  know  it  well,  persists  the  sworn  rumour 
that  Cossacks  met  in  the  field  invariably  rob  you. 
And  Cossacks,  or  Uhlans,  we  pledged  ourselves  to 
meet,  hunt  them  up,  or  bust,  that  day. 

We  routed  the  clerk  from  his  bunk,  who  stirred 


248  FIVE  FRONTS 

up  the  returned  commissioner.  That  person  was 
snoring,  with  a  black  fur  cap  on  his  round  gipsy 
face,  and  grunted  for  us  to  wait  half  an  hour,  till 
we  cut  in  with  some  strong  German  and  a  few 
English  cuss-words.  At  that  he  waved  an  arm 
to  the  soldier  dogging  us,  who,  outside  in  the 
road,  let  us  duck  under  his  barber-pole.  The 
Austrian  one  we  vaulted  —  foot-free,  at  length, 
between  the  lines  In  a  snowstorm,  having  no  food 
nor  any  scrap  of  paper  to  justify  our  presence  with 
either  army. 

I  got  the  first  thrill  of  the  many  to  come.  In- 
stantly, In  the  swirling  flakes  that  veiled  the  de- 
serted houses,  all  windowless,  many  burnt  ruins, 
even  Rumania  seemed  far  away  as  home,  say. 
One  felt  the  chances  ten  to  one  of  never  getting 
back  across  the  boundary  here.  If  either  army 
closed  about  us;  and  the  police  chief,  Panaitescu, 
had  dodged  all  responsibility  of  assuring  a  return 
to  his  country  by  any  route.  It  was  not  my  first 
still-hunt  for  the  clash  of  arms  in  the  war,  but 
the  most  exciting  this,  without  question.  I 
thanked  my  stars  that  young  Curtin  with  me  was 
a  Yankee,  the  lean,  keen,  resourceful  sort,  that 
will  play  the  game  wherever  his  head  may  rest  at 
dark. 

"  We'll  hit  something  —  bound  to,"  he  panted, 
as  we  topped  the  long  hill,  free  finally  of  any 
dwellings. 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       249 

At  first  and  for  nearly  an  hour  no  being  blurred 
the  utter  white  and  snowy  fields  so  vaguely  dis- 
cernible. Not  a  sound  while  we  plunged  on 
westward,  straining  eyes  for  any  moving  shade 
of  peasant,  horseman,  uniform,  against  the  ever- 
dark  line  of  such  a  close  horizon.  Dimly  behind 
rose  the  hills  of  the  frontier;  ahead,  hazy  woods. 
It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  life  began  stirring. 
A  peasant  woman  in  a  white  cotton  hood  and  a 
skirt  of  sacking,  a  basket  on  her  arm,  crossed  the 
road,  heading  south  before  we  could  accost  her, 
by  a  faint  track  in  the  very  direction  of  Mologhia. 
Then  came  a  rheumy-eyed  old  man,  hobbling  to- 
ward Mamornitza  on  a  cane.  He  spoke  only 
Rumanian.  A  farm  and  haystacks  loomed  out; 
next,  clattering  up  behind,  for  the  road  was  drifted 
bare  of  snow,  a  cart  driven  by  two  shaggy  peas- 
ants and  loaded  with  sacks  —  meal  or  contraband, 
likely  —  passed  by  our  lazy  frontier  friends. 
Soon  this  seemed  the  road's  great  activity;  empty 
sleds  and  V-sided  little  wagons  flocked  toward 
Mamornitza.  We  stopped  and  questioned  each. 
The  hooded  occupants  were  unanimous. 

"  The  Russians  have  gone  back  from  Czerno- 
witz,"  they  said  (Die  Riissen  sind  zuriick  gegan- 
gen)  and  excitedly,  but  In  peasants'  mere  awe  of 
change,  neither  with  joy  nor  regret.  "  But  Cos- 
sack patrols  are  still  in  the  city." 

So.     We  seemed  hitting  things  just  right.     We 


2io  FIVE  FRONTS 

hurried  on,  seeing  farther  to  the  south  now,  for 
the  storm  was  thinning.  But  mile  after  mile  we 
went,  and  never  an  Austrian  uniform.  It  became 
the  old,  discouraging  game  of  chasing  a  battle. 
Even  the  crows  felt  fooled  and  cheated,  holding 
indignation  meetings  in  every  tree.  Down  a  long 
hill,  crested  with  old  trenches  now  empty,  we 
found  the  village  of  Ostritza,  and  invaded  a 
thatched  hut  full  of  Rumanians.  It  was  washing 
day  inside.  Three  swarthy  women  stood  over 
steaming  tubs  and  agreed  to  cook  us  eggs,  while 
the  head  of  the  house  hitched  up  a  low  sledge  for 
our  last  lap  to  the  city. 

"  We  have  been  robbed,  of  course,"  they  said, 
nerveless,  unapprehensive,  cheerful,  in  the  way  of 
all  peasants  in  a  war-wracked  land.  "  Yes,  by 
the  soldiers  of  both  armies." 

"  But  we  are  living  still,  mother,"  sighed  a  dark 
young  girl  with  a  bracelet.  "  It  will  be  all  right. 
No  one  is  starving." 

And  as  we  ate,  fishing  rock-salt  from  a  huge 
sack,  a  grey  cat  dozed  on  atop  the  square  mud 
stove,  unconcerned  as  the  hens  outside  —  all  over 
Europe  hens  are  the  real  heroes,  still  impartially 
productive  in  the  sweep  of  armies.  And  we  paid 
but  60  heller  (12  cents)  for  our  half-dozen  eggs; 
five  crowns  for  the  sled. 

Then  outside  In  the  sled,  and  the  old  man  lash- 
ing his  bony  bay  horse,  we  climbed  out  of  the 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       251 

valley.  Once  more  bleak  uplands,  occasionally  a 
roadside  cross  with  a  tiny  peaked  roof,  and  the 
storm  whipping  up  to  a  blizzard.  Towards 
eleven,  by  the  increasing  huts  and  laden  wagons 
headed  with  us,  we  knew  we  approached  the  city's 
outskirts.  Children,  women  In  huge  felt  boots 
and  rawhide  coats,  but  never  more  than  white 
cotton  hoods  on  their  heads,  trudged  beside  their 
household  gods.  Refugees  returning,  of  German 
blood  by  their  square  pink  faces,  the  father  of 
each  family  at  our  inquiries  would  wave  no  more 
than  a  joyous  arm  to  assure  that  the  invaders  had 
gone.  We  gave  up  hope  of  meeting  any  soldiers. 
The  houses  became  citified,  corniced,  with  big  lin- 
tels over  the  double  windows  In  the  Galician 
fashion,  and  Russlsche  Gasse  (Russian  Street) 
lettered  on  the  corner  ones.  Bearded  Jews  in 
long  coats  and  wide  black  hats  loitered  on  the 
curbs,  and  we  knew  that  we  were  In  the  city. 

But  slowly  this  approach  to  Czernowltz 
changed  Its  character.  Not  before  in  the  war  had 
I  run  Into  a  phase  that  grew  so  In  foreboding. 
Now  for  memorable  hours  we  encountered  not 
a  single  uniform,  nor  local  official,  even  of  police. 
After  three  months,  an  alien  Invader  suddenly 
had  left  the  population,  dazed,  gaping,  leaderless. 
Whatever  the  truth  of  brutalities  —  always  im- 
possible to  verify  —  preceding  so  unique  a  state, 
strangers  like  us  knew  that  we  had  to  deal  with 


252  FIVE  FRONTS 

all  the  Inertia  of  Ignorance  and  passion  In  the  most 
polyglot  of  peoples,  among  whom  suspicion  of 
espionage  came  first  and  strongest.  Customarily, 
according  to  report,  in  reoccupying  an  Austrian 
town,  the  civil  population  points  out  to  the  en- 
tering troops  suspected  spies,  or  any  persons  it 
may  have  a  grudge  against,  as  a  means  of  getting 
solid  with  the  military,  and  they  are  dealt  with  — 
summarily. 

The  street  pitched  down  hill,  over  a  railway 
line  entering  from  the  south.  Kosher  signs  ap- 
peared on  the  walls ;  many  windows  were  broken, 
some  shops  looted,  but  most  were  tight  closed  be- 
hind fluted  Iron  shutters.  Idle  citizens  eyed  us,  so 
conspicuous  with  our  queer  sledge,  and  we  heard 
muttered  comments.  A  pole  stretched  from  walk 
to  walk  barred  the  way,  and  a  boy  of  fourteen 
came  out  of  the  tollhouse  with  a  strip  of  paper  for 
our  driver.  He  wore  a  red  Hungarian  soldier's 
cap  and  said  he  had  just  returned  to  his  post. 
Up  another  hill,  now  In  the  swarming  heart  of 
the  city,  and  we  scraped  over  cobbles  into  the  main 
square,  across  -which  we  spotted  the  Schwartzen 
Adler  Hotel,,  and  made  for  It,  the  strangest  out- 
fit, with  my  brown  sleeping-bag  our  only  luggage, 
that  could  have  stopped  there  lately. 

In  the  open  here  it  was  market-day.  Crowds 
of  peasants,  mostly  Ruthenlan  and  Rumanian 
women,  kept  up  a  low,  gossiping  murmur  that  yet 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       253 

in  its  sum  had  the  quality  of  a  roar,  over  their 
baskets  and  sacks,  chiefly  of  cabbages  and  apples, 
which  the  throngs  mingling  among  them  were  all 
too  expectant  and  preoccupied  to  buy.  The  great 
pinkish  Stadthaus  had  its  high  steps  and  arched 
porticos  crowded  with  important-looking  citi- 
zens that  we  carefully  avoided.  It  filled  the  south 
side  of  the  square.  Behind  the  railing  on  its  high, 
round  tower  and  under  a  golden,  emblematic 
globe,  a  lookout  in  a  yellow  slicker  paced  rest- 
lessly, peering  through  a  spyglass  for  the  expected 
Uhlans.  Down  over  the  entrance  still  hung  the 
white,  blue,  red  flag  of  Russia,  which  no  one  yet 
seemed  to  have  the  nerve  to  pull  down. 

In  the  hotel  we  hunted  up  the  porter,  a  manni- 
kln  with  a  wispy  beard  and  no  chin.  It  was  the 
usual  down-at-heel  Galician  hostelry;  huge  rooms 
and  lofty  ceilings,  filthy,  with  tracked  mud  deep 
on  the  stair  carpets.  "  What  use  to  keep  it 
clean,"  shrugged  the  porter,  "  when  it  was  full 
of  riotous,  brutal  Russians?"  Their  ofiicers' 
names  still  were  chalked  on  the  blackboard  in  the 
oflSce.  We  ordered  a  fire  in  the  high  porcelain 
stove,  hot  water,  and  a  barber  to  be  sent  up  to 
shave  us.  It  was  our  first  breathing  space,  and 
waiting,  we  began,  after  hardly  speaking  for 
hours,  to  discuss  and  compare  the  plans  and  ap- 
prehensions crowding  both  our  minds. 

Maybe  the  utter  desertion  of  the  hotel,  the 


254  FIVE  FRONTS 

restive  hum  of  throngs  under  our  windows,  the 
peering  citizens  gathered  on  each  doorstep,  got 
at  our  nerves.  Simultaneously  one  fact  annoyed 
us  —  that  though  not  even  a  Russian  patrol  was 
left  in  the  city,  that  flag  still  waved  from  the  town- 
hall. 

"  If  some  one  doesn't  climb  up  and  haul  it  down 
soon,  I'll  do  it  myself,"  burst  out  Curtin  at  the 
window.  "  Think  of  a  German  flag  being  left 
like  that  in  a  French  or  English  town.  Why,  the 
citizens  would  be  fighting  to  tear  it  away." 

Now  and  then  beyond  the  market  a  red  trolley 
car  slid  by  through  the  driving  snow.  The  porter 
came  with  water,  filled  and  lit  the  stove,  for  the 
first  time  eyeing  us  with  concern. 

"  Not  a  citizen  dared  go  outdoors  after  dark 
last  night,  for  fear  of  being  shot  while  the  Rus- 
sians were  going  away,"  he  told  us.  "  They  or- 
dered every  one  to  stay  indoors.  Looted  all  the 
stores.  Took  a  hundred  women  and  children  for 
hostages.  Stole  everything  from  that  jeweller's 
there  on  the  corner  — "  and  he  slipped  away  sud- 
denly. The  fellow  suspected  us.  He  kept  walk- 
ing up  and  down  outside  our  door. 

I  was  shaving.  Here  at  the  heart  of  the  sur- 
rounding conflict,  in  the  calm  dead-centre  of  the 
tornado,  the  stagnation  was  making  me  uncomfort- 
able. 


A  DEAD  CENTRE  OF  WAR       255 

"  I'd  like  to  see  a  uniform !  "  I  cried,  "  Austrian 
or  Russian,  no  matter.  Soldiers  are  always  rea- 
sonable enough,  whatever  they  may  imagine  about 
you.  Give  me  the  Austrians,  rather  than  a  mob 
like  that  one  outside,  after  what  it's  been  through, 
and  without  any  head  at  all." 

"  And  have  some  Jew,"  grinned  Curtin,  "  to 
make  a  hit  with  an  officer,  point  us  out  as  spies,  so 
we  get  shoti" 

At  last  the  barber  came  with  his  kit,  a  yellow, 
lean  man,  and  the  one  being  of  our  four  hours  in 
Czernowitz  who  really  seemed  to  believe  us  when 
we  told  him  that  we  were  reporters,  with  author^: 
ity  to  relieve  Americans. 

"When  are  the  Austrians  expected?"  we  de- 
manded, as  we  had  from  both  the  porter  and  the 
proprietor,  a  stout  man  with  a  drooping  mous- 
tache, glimpsed  down  in  the  office.  "  Doesn't  any 
one  know?  Hasn't  any  word  come  from  them  — 
can't  they  see  anything  from  that  tower?  " 

I  opened  the  window  to  catch  the  first  clatter  of 
Uhlans'  hoofs  on  the  cobbles,  If  they  should  come 
sweeping  into  the  square, 

"  In  an  hour  or  two,  they  say,"  said  the  barber, 
at  work  on  Curtin.  "  Some  think  any  minute. 
They  had  a  patrol  In  the  western  part  of  the  city 
early  this  morning." 

"  That  d — d  flag  there,  yet,"  I  broke  out. 


256  FIVE  FRONTS 

"  Yes.  No  one  dares  to  touch  it.  They're 
keeping  the  honour  of  hauling  It  down  for  the  Aus- 
trian commander." 

"That's  these  people  for  you,  isn't  it?"  ex- 
claimed Curtin.  "  Afraid  to  breathe  without  of- 
ficial sanction." 

Once  in  our  chat,  the  friendly  barber  remarkeH 
that  he  had  a  niece  in  town  who  was  "  married  to 
an  American."     An  inspiration  seized  us. 

"  Send  her  around,"  I  said.  "  We  might  as 
well  get  some  action  out  of  the  red  seal  on  our 
Minister's  paper." 

"  We'll  open  a  relief  office,"  said  Curtin. 
"  Declare  this  room  our  headquarters,  and  our 
hours" — glancing  at  the  clock — "  12  to  12:30 
this  afternoon."  Then  in  German,  for  the  barber 
spoke  no  English,  we  recklessly  told  him  to  spread 
it  through  the  city  for  all  Americans  in  need  of 
help  to  call  on  us. 


II 

RUNNING  THE  LINES  FROM  CZERNOWITZ 

It  was  nearly  noon,  and  we  were  hungry. 
The  barber  refused  to  take  any  money.  The 
Russians,  he  said,  had  never  paid  him,  and  he 
seemed  not  to  have  recovered  from  the  daze  of 
their  rule.  All  the  time  at  the  window,  watching 
and  listening,  I  had  been  making  up  my  mind. 

"  We  started  out  to  see  the  Cossacks,"  I  said, 
"  so  let's  do  it.  Stick  around  here  till  the  last 
minute,  when  we  hear  the  Austrians  coming,  and 
then  make  a  quick  exit,  across  the  river  to  the 
north  bank,  and  hunt  up  the  Russian  army." 

"  Hire  one  of  those  hacks,"  said  Curtin,  point- 
ing to  a  line  of  them  below,  "  and  by  the  hour,  so 
we  can  light  out  on  the  jump.  Let's  get  one  now, 
and  keep  it  while  we're  at  luncheon,  eh?  " 

We  piled  downstairs,  brushing  by  the  lurking 
porter,  and  dickered  with  a  young  tow-headed 
driver,  who  had  one  grinning  tooth.  Of  course, 
the  gaping  crowd  gathered  about,  but  once  inside 
the  hack,  we  pulled  the  cover  down  tight.  We 
were  to  pay  the  fellow  three  crowns  an  hour,  and 
ordered  him  to  take  us  to  the  best  restaurant  in 
town.     Off  we  clattered  through  the  dirty,  shut- 

257 


258  FIVE  FRONTS 

tered  streets,  on  which  not  another  wheel  was 
moving;  and  as  we  twisted  among  the  heavy, 
stucco  buildings  —  here  and  there  a  new  store  or 
coffee-house  In  the  Egyptian-like  architecture  of 
Vienna  —  heads  thrust  under  the  carriage  top  and 
studied  us  Insolently.  Still,  with  each  moment  our 
excitement  and  elation  grew.  Opening  an  Ameri- 
can relief  office  between  the  lines.  Nothing  in 
get-rich-quick  fiction  quite  equalled  that ! 

The  restaurant,  on  a  steep  side  street,  was  small 
and  jammed  with  stout  German-chattering  shop- 
keepers, noisily  eating  soup  and  mishandling  their 
forks.  We  asked  the  driver  in,  had  him  fed  at 
another  table,  and  over  our  own  boiled  pork  and 
kraut  —  beer,  too,  and  all  cheap  enough  —  dis- 
creetly talked  no  English.  The  guests,  as  If  jaded 
by  successive  occupations  of  their  city,  were 
calmly  swapping  wild  tales  of  20,000  Russians 
having  been  made  prisoners,  and  of  a  Rumanian 
patrol  near  the  border  that  had  fired  on  German 
troops. 

In  half  an  hour,  we  were  back  in  our  "  office," 
escorted  by  the  gum-shoe  porter,  to  face  four 
"  clients,"  two  women  and  two  men.  And  from 
now,  whether  through  the  porter's  activity,  the  sus- 
picious crowds,  or  our  announcement  sent  broad- 
cast by  the  barber,  we  had  not  a  moment's  peace. 
We  made  a  great  show  of  taking  notes  on  each 
case,  but  every  instant  were  interrupted  by  a  bang 


RUNNING  THE  LINES  259 

on  the  door.  First  the  porter  to  have  us  write 
our  names  and  biography,  according  to  police  regu- 
lations, then  the  stout  proprietor  to  make  us  do 
it  all  over  again,  on  more  exacting  printed  forms. 
And  after  our  record  as  "  American  Relief  Com- 
mittee "  (in  English),  we  each  honestly  added, 
"  auch  Kriegsvertreter." 

"  That'll  mystify  any  Austrian  general,"  said 
Curtin.  "  They'll  never  reconcile  a  relief  job 
with  a  reporter  dog.  Think  us  spies  when  they 
see  it,  sure." 

Came  the  porter  again,  with  a  message  from  the 
toothless  driver;  where  we  wanted  to  go  and  when 
we  were  going  to  pay  him? 

Our  delegation  comprised  a  cross-eyed  young 
woman,  an  old  man  with  frizzled  hair  who  pro- 
duced for  identification  no  more  than  his  declara- 
tion of  intention  for  citizenship,  a  grinning,  gar- 
rulous fellow  in  a  sort  of  smock,  and  a  full-lipped, 
dark  lady  with  a  tragic  mien,  the  barber's  niece. 
She  alone  had  the  only  lien  on  our  flag  —  no  pass- 
port, of  course,  but  a  letter  from  the  Vienna  Em- 
bassy, into  whose  bailiwick  we  really  were  butting, 
and  a  New  York  Health  Department  birth  certifi- 
cate of  one  of  her  three  children.  For  two 
others,  she  had  a  Department  paper  denying  that 
the  city  had  any  record  of  their  birth.  Her  name 
was  Fischer,  she  said  that  her  husband  lived  on 
Essex  Street,  New  York,  and  she  wanted  to  get 


26o  FIVE  FRONTS 

to  him.  Had  plenty  of  money  In  the  bank,  but 
the  Austrians  would  let  her  draw  only  200  crowns 
($40)  a  month.  Wanted  to  reach  Vienna,  and 
see  the  Embassy,  but  we  advised  her  to  write 
there,  now  that  communication  would  be  open, 
and  save  railway  fare. 

"  Ah,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  shook  her  head, 
bitterly.  "  I  had  better  go  while  I  can,  for  the 
Russians  will  be  back  here,  soon  enough." 

The  others  may  have  come  to  spy  on  us,  but 
they  seemed  chiefly  anxious  to  know  if  any  ships 
were  sailing  to  America,  facts  the  German  coun- 
tries deny  to  possible  emigrants.  We  reassured 
them.  The  talkative  man  merely  wanted  to  get 
back  to  Chicago,  where  he  had  been  a  plumber's 
helper. 

No  sooner  were  they  gone  than  the  tow-headed 
driver  himself  bounded  into  the  room.  Taking 
Curtin  aside,  he  whispered  to  him  in  German,  with 
an  air  of  treacherously  plotting  with  us  — 

"  Only  tell  me  the  truth.  It's  all  right. 
Where  do  you  really  want  to  go?  I'll  take  you 
there."     It  was  now  nearly  three  o'clock. 

"  This  is  getting  fierce,"  I  said.  "  If  we're  go- 
ing to  cross  the  lines  to  the  Russians,  let's  start  our 
get-away  now,  anyhow." 

Instantly  we  agreed  on  the  m6ve,  cast  the  die. 
The  one  difficulty  lay  in  my  blanket-bag,  for  we 
had  hired  the  room  for  the  night.     To  decamp 


RUNNING  THE  LINES  261 

with  it  now,  paying  for  the  room,  might  add  the 
last  straw  to  the  hotel's  suspicions.  To  sneak 
away  dodging  our  bill  was  alluring  but  impossible. 
We  managed  to  steal  downstairs,  avoiding  the 
porter,  and  the  moustached  proprietor  actually 
swallowed  our  story  that  we  might  be  back  that 
night,  or  might  not;  and  charged  us  two  crowns 
for  the  use  of  our  "  office,"  to  date. 

In  the  square,  most  of  the  market  women  had 
made  away  with  their  goods.  As  the  seedy  loi- 
terers surrounded  us,  you  could  see  a  great  stir 
around  the  Stadthaus,  men  running  up  and  down 
the  steps,  the  lookout  on  the  tower  gone  from  his 
post,  but  all  without  exclamation  or  sound  over 
the  snow. 

"Hark!"  cried  Curtin,  bracing  rigid  as  we 
jumped  into  the  hack. 

It  was  the  climax  of  our  long  tension,  the  final 
break  in  the  uncanny  calm  at  this  dead-centre  of 
war. 

Distinctly  from  up  the  square  we  heard  clatter- 
ing hoofs,  confused  exclamations,  one  falsetto 
shout. 

"  Here  they  come,"  I  said.  "  Drive  like  the 
devil!" 

**  Wo  —  wohinf  demanded  single-tooth, 
hoarsely,  ducking  his  head  under  the  hood. 

"  Down  to  the  river.  Across  the  bridge.  The 
Austrians! '' 


262  FIVE  FRONTS 

For  an  instant  he  stared  at  us,  stonily.  My 
heart  rose  to  my  mouth.  Then  he  lashed  up  his 
horses. 

I  had  hardly  noticed  all  the  faces  thrust  under 
the  hack  cover.  But  at  my  last  words  they 
nodded,  began  a  babel  of  talk,  and  as  we  dashed 
away  hands  were  thrust  out  toward  the  reins. 

But  we  eluded  them,  swaying  and  bumping 
around  three  or  four  corners,  keeping  ourselves 
hidden.  Then  suddenly  the  driver  pulled  up,  and 
we  looked  out  into  a  deserted  side  street.  Up 
went  the  hood  again,  and  that  sly  face  once  more 
confronted  us : 

"  The  bridge  Is  blown  up.  No  one  can  cross 
the  Pruth." 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  he  tell  us?"  said  Cur- 
tin.     "  It  looks  like  a  plant." 

"You  want  to  go  to  the  Russians?"  croaked 
the  fellow,  as  if  he  were  suggesting  murder.  "  I'll 
take  you  there." 

"How?     Where?" 

"  There's  another  bridge  they  forgot.  Ten 
kilometres  away,"  he  pointed  east  with  his  whip. 
"  At  Ostritza." 

"  The  place  we  passed  through  this  morning,"  I 
remembered.  "  I  think  it's  a  blind,  to  drive  us 
into  the  Austrians." 

"  And  we'd  be  certain  now  to  meet  them,  on  the 
way  there,"  said  Curtin. 


RUNNING  THE  LINES  263 

"  Let's  take  a  look  here,  anyhow,"  I  com- 
promised; and  to  the  driver — "The  railway 
bridge,  that  we  started  for.  And  schnell! 
schnell!  " 

He  obeyed.  We  rattled  on  down  the  hill, 
swinging  left  (west).  It  seemed  miles,  past  the 
big  deserted  railway  station,  where  the  orange 
and  black  letter-boxes  by  the  entrances  were 
mashed  and  split  open.  At  length,  reaching  a 
long  level,  the  houses  thinned;  broken  fences  gave 
upon  unkempt  flats,  with  the  River  Pruth,  half 
frozen,  flowing  through  them.  We  stopped  at 
such  a  gap  and  got  out,  to  be  instantly  surrounded 
by  a  mob,  but  mostly  of  youths. 

The  blizzard  had  changed  into  a  drizzle.  From 
here  two  bridges  at  once  were  visible,  both  great 
structures  of  arched  black  girders,  with  two  seg- 
ments in  each  blown  up  and  drooping  into  the 
river.  Furthest,  and  on  the  right,  the  railway 
bridge,  untouched  after  it  had  first  been  wrecked, 
by  the  retreating  Austrians  in  November,  prob- 
ably. But  the  road  bridge  close  by  was  veiled  in 
a  crackling,  eddying  cloud  of  smoke.  It  had  been 
repaired  with  wooden  trestlings,  which  the  Rus- 
sians had  fired  and  were  still  burning.  Then,  be- 
tween them,  we  sighted  what  made  our  spirits  leap 
—  a  low  bridge  of  pontoons,  which  for  a  distance, 
at  least,  through  the  ice,  seemed  intact. 

We  made  for  it,  followed  by  the  crowd,  ques- 


264  FIVE  FRONTS 

tioning  them.  A  rowdy  with  a  cast  in  his  eye 
made  himself  spokesman.  The  Russians  had 
soaked  the  structure  with  petrol,  but  the  river  had 
put  it  out.  Standing  where  it  began,  you  could 
see  that,  as  it  wriggled  out,  flat  and  close  on  the  ice 
and  water,  to  an  open  space  both  sides  of  which 
were  charred  and  black.  For  some  ten  feet  be- 
tween them  the  chill  current  leaped  and  foamed. 
Could  we  get  across?  Planks  a-plenty  were  lying 
about.     Who  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  river? 

"  Kossaken,  Kossaken !  "  answered  the  crowd, 
with  exclamations  of  "  Schiessen,"  and  panto- 
mime. And  if  they  didn't  shoot  us,  said  the 
crooked-eye  youth  — "  You  will  be  sent  to  Si- 
beria."    It  was  no  use  to  laugh. 

"  The  Cossacks  are  right  behind  that  house," 
chimed  in  another,  pointing  to  a  burned  building 
between  the  far  end  of  the  pontoon  and  the  road 
bridge.  "  We  have  thrown  cartridges  into  the 
burning  trestle,  which  explode  and  bring  them  out 
to  peer  at  us  through  their  glasses." 

We  hesitated.  It  was  something  of  a  moment. 
With  the  Austrians  in  the  city,  to  cross  the  river, 
even  could  we  make  it,  would  be  risking  the  al- 
ways dangerous  and  forbidden  act  in  war  of  pass- 
ing between  enemies.  The  best  we  could  be  sure 
of,  with  our  lack  of  proper  papers,  and  the  chances 
all  against  any  Cossacks  being  able  to  read,  was  to 
be  hailed  and  arrested  by  the  first  sentry.    But  we 


RUNNING  THE  LINES  265 

debated  nothing.  Dragging  the  gang  back  to  the 
carriage,  our  idea  seemed  mutual  to  reconnoitre  a 
bit.  We  made  the  toothless  one  drive  us  up  the 
hill  above  the  road  bridge.  And  from  there, 
looking  down  on  the  straggling,  one-story,  tin- 
roofed  shacks  of  the  far  bank,  not  a  human  being 
was  visible. 

As  a  fact,  my  mind  had  long  been  made  up. 
And  if  Curtin's  wasn't,  it  took  only  a  word  to  win 
him.  Our  sworn  job  was  chasing  the  Russians, 
and  what  with  all  our  relief  self-advertisement  at 
the  Schwarzen  Adler,  and  the  whole  market-place 
thinking  us  spies,  we  were  in  too  deep  and  too  bad 
to  face  any  Austrians  fighting  back  to  their  city 
after  its  months  in  "  barbarian  "  bondage.  Never 
had  any  place  so  got  on  my  nerves  as  Czernowitz, 
nor  made  me  so  feel  the  dread  and  apprehension 
of  angry,  irresponsible  crowds. 

"  By  Heaven,  I'm  going  to  cross  her,"  I  said. 
"  This  town's  becoming  the  limit." 

"  Go  you,"  said  Curtin,  wiping  his  eye-glasses. 
"  I'm  game." 

We  were  hardly  an  instant  too  soon.  Back  at 
the  pontoon,  some  idea  of  our  purpose  must  have 
seeped  up-town,  for  down  the  road  was  coming  a 
man  in  a  queer  whitish  coat  with  a  meal-sack  on 
his  back,  who  joined  us,  pointing  to  the  planks. 
Then  all  at  once  a  shout  up  the  street,  and  I 
sighted  four  horsemen  cross  it,  and  disappear,     I 


266  FIVE  FRONTS 

was  paying  one-tooth,  and  he  was  holding  out  for 
an  additional  hour's  charge  —  a  bold  scheme  to 
delay  us,  to  be  sure.  He  doggedly  kept  repeating 
over,  "  Drei  und  halb  Stunden,"  which  at  least 
fixed  the  time  In  my  mind.  I  thrust  nine  crowns 
at  him,  to  take  or  leave,  and  left  him  growling 
and  shaking  his  fist.  Mine  was  trembling.  I 
ran  to  join  Curtin,  bending  over  the  planks  In  the 
smoke  and  sparks  of  the  burning  trestles. 

It  took  but  a  minute  to  lay  the  boards.  We 
balanced  over  the  ugly,  Icy  riffle  —  across.  But  it 
was  still  fifty  yards  to  where  the  Ice  met  the  shore. 
We  let  the  man  with  the  white  sack,  plainly  a  na- 
tive going  home,  lead.  One  of  the  kids,  too,  from 
the  crowd  had  joined  us,  the  while  it  thronged  the 
bank,  vague  through  the  smoke,  awed  and  silently 
gaping. 

That  fifty  yards.  It  was  one  of  those  rare, 
crowded  eras  of  living  which  strips  existence  of 
your  last  vanity. 

"  Thank  the  sense  you  had,"  muttered  Curtin, 
"  to  stow  that  cash  in  your  heel." 

I  recollect  that  I  was  puzzling  why  we  were  not 
also  literally  burning  our  bridges  behind  us. 
Only,  the  wrong  bridge  was  burning,  and  we  had 
not  set  it. 

We  stepped  off  upon  frozen,  crackling  grass. 
Gaps  in  the  lone  wall  of  the  burned  house  ahead, 
up  the  rise,  were  darkened  by  some  invisible,  mov- 


RUNNING  THE  LINES  267 

ing  figure.  To  reach  the  road,  you  had  to  climb 
a  steep  bank  on  the  left.  It  was  a  hard,  icy 
scramble,  and  half  way  up  I  slipped  and  fell.  Re- 
covering myself,  I  seized  the  fence  rails  and 
crawled  between  them,  at  last  to  stand  upright 
before  the  deserted,  down-at-heel  village.  A  man 
filled  what  had  been  a  doorway  of  the  house,  a 
dark  face  under  a  shaggy  shako,  a  carbine  on  his 
shoulder,  straps  crossed  diagonally  on  his  chest, 
with  big  leather  knee-boots  under  the  skirt  of  his 
brown  coat 

A  Cossack  sentry,  on  duty. 

Immediately,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  showed  his 
back,  with  a  careless  swing.  He  had  seen  us  — 
but  with  his  eyes  alone  —  this  first  Russian  soldier 
I  had  yet  beheld  In  the  field  since  the  war. 

Curtin  and  I  looked  at  each  other,  breathing 
out  hard.  At  any  rate,  we  had  passed  him,  were 
Inside  the  Russian  lines. 

We  had  turned  the  trick. 


Ill 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS 

We  kept  on,  as  if  walking  on  eggs,  but  chuckling 
to  ourselves,  not  yet  daring  to  talk.  Chiefly  I  felt 
an  immense  sense  of  relief,  of  triumph.  Any 
flushed,  accusing  Uhlan  seemed  far  away  now,  as 
though  armed  trenches  lay  between  us.  As  a  fact, 
though  we  did  not  know  it  till  later,  the  Austrians 
crossed  the  river  hardly  an  hour  behind  us. 

You  felt  that  at  least  uniforms,  disciplined  au- 
thority, were  at  hand  to  appeal  to  in  trouble. 
They  still  overawed  the  (to  them)  alien  populace, 
we  were  no  longer  at  its  mercy  in  the  matter  of 
suspicion  and  charges  of  spying.  In  that,  truly, 
we  had  a  clean  slate,  and  being  with  a  retreating 
army  would  not  compromise  ourselves  unless 
caught  trying  to  return  to  Czernowitz  (the  last 
thing  in  our  minds),  but  get  the  fair  benefit  of  any 
doubt. 

"  Haven't  felt  so  safe  for  hours,"  I  said  at 
last.  "  I'd  trust  any  of  these  Cossacks,  private  or 
officer,  quicker  than  an  Austrian  now.  But  no 
more  lightning  relief  stunts  for  us." 

Over  the  sack  on  the  whitish  man's  back  ap- 
peared a  bunch  of  fine,  long-tailed  horses,  bays  and 

2^ 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     269 

dappled  greys,  waiting  riderless  In  the  middle  of 
the  street  outside  a  tiny  cafe.  From  the  uniform 
raincoats  on  the  saddles  we  judged  them  officers' 
mounts.  Then  walking  towards  us  in  close  for- 
mation came  a  band  of  a  dozen  mounted  men, 
Cossacks  on  patrol,  our  first  sight  of  them  at  their 
famous  job. 

And  extraordinary,  impressive  they  were. 
Their  huge  conical  hats  were  of  all  shades  of 
shaggy  wool,  from  snowy  white,  through  grey  as- 
trakan,  to  black.  The  features  beneath  were  full- 
lipped  and  swarthy,  but  at  the  same  time  white 
men's  faces ;  terrible  yet  kindly,  with  a  sort  of  tol- 
erant lordliness  and  pride  of  life.  They,  too, 
passed  hardly  glancing  aside  at  us.  Likewise 
soon,  galloping  out  of  and  down  cross  ways,  others 
came  riding,  huge  and  lithe,  with  that  same  saddle- 
tight,  not-rising  ease  that  our  West  knows. 

Not  one  but  utterly  Ignored  us.  We  were  free 
from  the  uncanny  dead-centre  of  conflict,  but  Its 
stress  was  still  far  away. 

A  lame  man  emerged  from  a  wicker  gate,  and 
tipped  his  hat  to  more.  At  first  we  too  did  so, 
but  soon  decided  this  was  subservient,  and  there- 
after always  saluted  Instead.  We  entered  an  icy 
waste  edged  with  warehouses,  and  the  man  with 
the  sack  kept  stopping  to  talk  with  passersby. 
They  would  halt,  mutter,  and  stare  after  us  with 
a  prying  curiosity.     Group  after  group  thus;  we 


270  FIVE  FRONTS 

were  becoming  as  marked  as  in  Czernowitz  —  the 
folk  informed  by  our  companion,  who  may  have 
known  too  much  about  us  and  invented  more. 

We  were  ahead  now  with  the  trudging  young- 
ster. In  the  middle  of  that  open  a  dead  man 
was  lying  flat  on  the  ice.  His  cane,  with  a  curved 
handle,  lay  behind  him.  He  was  a  stout  old  fel- 
low, in  a  ragged  brown  ulster  and  black  sugarloaf 
hat,  with  the  red  still  lingering  in  his  cheeks,  as 
if  frozen  there.  There  was  blood  on  the  snow 
and  blood  on  his  grey  beard,  but  we  could  find  no 
bullet-hole. 

"  Hemorrhage,"  I  concluded.  "  Some  sort  of 
apoplexy." 

"  Couldn't  have  died  of  fright,"  said  Curtin, 
"  because  he  isn't  a  Jew." 

Who  would  ever  care,  or  could  tell?  Had  he  a 
wife,  sons,  a  daughter?  Where  were  they,  and  did 
they  know?  Any  one  that  passed  made  a  blind 
circuit  around  him.     He  was  least  of  all  our  affair. 

We  crossed  the  railway  track  leading  down  the 
north  bank  of  the  Pruth  (east)  to  the  village  of 
Boian,  which  we  had  guessed  was  the  main  point 
of  the  retreat,  and  toward  this  place  in  Russia. 
But  first  we  kept  on  into  the  town  of  Sadagura, 
six  kilometres  from  the  river.  In  its  small  square 
gaped  the  same  idle,  restive  crews  as  in  the  city, 
always  so  void  of  womankind. 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     271 

"  Let's  hunt  up  a  Cossack  officer,"  I  said,  "  and 
square  ourselves.  We'll  feel  more  comfortable, 
and  it'll  be  getting  dark  soon,  with  this  country 
alive  with  excited  patrols." 

The  kid  returned  my  bundle,  and  paying  him 
gathered  a  crowd.  We  chartered  another  one  to 
show  us  the  Cossacks'  barracks,  "  In  unser  Kaiser's 
Kaserne,"  as  he  indignantly  said,  leading  down 
a  street  to  a  great  stone-walled  enclosure  full 
of  low,  military  buildings  that  still  bore  the 
duplex  eagles  and  orange  and  black  of  Austria; 
but  with  a  Cossack  at  every  gate.  I  aired  my 
bad  Russian  to  the  first  one,  who  directed  us  to 
a  shop  with  broken  windows  opposite  the  next 
entrance,  where  we  found  an  under-officer.  We 
tried  to  show  him  our  passports,  to  make  him  let 
us  Into  a  back  room  where  his  superiors  could  be 
heard  talking;  but  he  flatly  refused,  nor  did  our 
papers  seem  to  interest  him.  Yet,  obvious 
strangers  that  we  were,  he  betrayed  not  the  least 
suspicion.  He  wore  a  blue  uniform,  had  a  round, 
ruddy  face,  black  moustache,  and  very  arched  eye- 
brows. 

"  But  we  want  permission  to  go  about  with 
you,"  I  said. 

"  How  can  you?  "  he  answered,  with  a  twinkle. 
"  Because  I  am  not  going  anywhere,  but  shall  stay 
right  here." 


272  FIVE  FRONTS 

"  Then  we  want  to  follow  your  army  wherever 
it  has  marched." 

"  Travel  where  you  please,"  he  said,  nonchal- 
antly, waving  a  hand.  "  Cross  over  into  Russia, 
if  you  wish.     I  don't  care." 

Amazed,  we  left  him.  From  the  spy-mad 
French  and  English,  from  the  alert  and  rigorous 
Germans  or  Austrians  of  the  front,  such  casual 
treatment  would  have  been  impossible.  Back  we 
went  to  the  square  to  hire  a  vehicle  to  take  us  to 
Boian.  A  tall  Jew,  in  brown  gaiters,  who  dom- 
inated the  throngs,  told  us  none  could  be  had,  un- 
less a  peasant's  cart  from  out  in  the  country.  He 
was  the  one  citizen  we  had  met  who  seemed  rea- 
sonable, in  his  right  mind,  and  he  spotted  us  at 
once  for  Americans.  A  little  boy  doubtfully 
spoke  up  that  he  knew  of  a  Jew  who  owned  a  car- 
riage and  two  horses,  and  we  credulously  let  him 
lead  us  through  a  long  maze  of  filthy  alleys  to  a 
hovel  on  the  highroad  coming  in  from  the 
west. 

But  before  we  could  rap  on  the  door,  it  was 
slammed  in  our  faces.  We  heard  a  great  clatter 
of  wheels  and  hoofs,  and,  looking  up  the  road, 
beheld  a  long  train  of  approaching  artillery  inter- 
spersed with  Cossacks. 

"  They  are  afraid  to  come  out,"  said  our  boy, 
motioning  to  the  house,  "  while  any  troops  are 
passing.     Or  to  let  you  In." 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     273 

"Why?"  we  demanded,  sore  enough,  and 
banging  on  the  door  to  no  effect. 

"  I  told  you  they  were  Jews,"  he  said,  cowedly, 
hanging  his  head.     "  They  might  be  killed." 

"Rot!" 

We  laughed  at  being  fooled  so.  What  chance 
had  we  to  get  a  driver  to  take  us  into  the  heart 
of  the  Russian  army,  who  would  not  even  budge 
from  his  house  as  troops  neared  it? 

"  You  must  be  a  Jew,  too,"  I  said,  "  to  have 
taken  us  here  —  for  a  tip."  Which  I  gave 
him. 

"  It  is  so,"  the  poor  child  murmured. 

Through  the  tiny  window,  as  twelve  great  guns 
laboured  past  in  retreat  —  ammunition  wagons 
loaded  also  with  hay,  the  grey-coated,  set-eyed 
drivers  dozing  on  their  seats  —  you  could  see 
shifting  and  furtive  faces,  the  noses,  peikas,  of 
cringing  men;  glistening-eyed  girls  and  women. 
Ranks  of  furry  horsemen  burst  into  a  melancholy, 
humming  chant.  There  was  one  Red  Cross 
wagon.     It  was  almost  night  already. 

"  Come  on,"  I  said,  "  our  game's  to  follow 
them  on  foot.  They'll  lead  us  straight  to  head- 
quarters." 

We  started  after;  but  the  column  had  outdis- 
tanced us  by  the  time  we  reached  the  square  again, 
though  we  thought  that  we  could  follow  it  from 
the    wheel-tracks    in    the    mud.     By    now    every 


274  FIVE  FRONTS 

youngster  In  Sadagura  seemed  to  know  that  we 
were  Americans,  with  heller  to  spend.  They 
swarmed  after  us,  and  when  one  begged,  affirming 
that  he  had  a  father  in  New  York,  the  next  would 
match  that  by  claiming  a  brother  there,  another 
bidding  two  sisters,  and  so  on.  The  gaitered  Jew 
dispersed  them;  we  passed  the  hooded  riders  ed- 
dying in  and  out  of  the  kasern  grounds,  and  then 
in  the  dusk  of  the  open  road,  quite  alone  at  last, 
suddenly  met  three  beings  who  made  us  stop  in  our 
tracks  and  murmur: 

"  Their  troops  from  Turkestan.  The  Turko- 
men!  " 

True  enough,  though  they  were  afoot,  these 
beings  that  we  had  most  wanted  to  encounter. 
Shorter,  withal  shaggier  than  the  Cossacks  though 
seeming  dressed  like  them,  their  swarthier,  pure 
Tartar  faces  most  resembled  the  Buriats  one  sees 
in  Manchuria.  They  had  a  wide  golden  stripe  on 
each  shoulder,  and  in  their  slant-eyes,  moustaches 
like  idols  of  Buddha,  were  oriental  as  Chinamen. 
They  vanished  toward  Sadagura,  only  glancing  at 
us  like  any  men  strayed  from  their  command  — 
men  of  a  race  warring  here  in  the  Occident  for  the 
first  time  since  the  days  of  Genghis  Khan. 

For  an  hour  the  road  mounted  along  the  hills ; 
every  peasant's  house  was  lightless,  and  the  artil- 
lery wheel-tracks  hard  to  follow.  Any  moment 
in  the  darkness,  we  might  be  hailed,  halted,  and 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     275 

not  answering  in  proper  Russian,  get  a  shot. 
Finally  at  a  burned  and  deserted  shack,  where  a 
cowskin  knapsack  lay  in  the  snow,  the  road  forked. 
A  peasant  in  white  skins  coming  down  the  hillside 
fields  directed  us  In  Russian  to  the  right  for  Boian. 
As  we  turned,  a  two-horse  carriage  came  up  from 
its  direction ;  but  the  driver,  when  we  tried  to  hire 
him,  only  lashed  up  his  horses  and  disappeared. 
The  road  now  veered  straight  across  the  open 
river  flats,  gleaming  pallidly  in  their  white  cover. 
We  were  getting  footsore ;  from  time  to  time  out 
there,  appeared  some  galloping  Cossack,  always 
scorning  the  highway  for  the  bare  swamp  or  corn- 
fields, flitting  like  a  ghostly  shadow. 

At  last  the  rattle  of  wheels,  a  loud,  demanding 
voice  broke  out  far  behind.  "  Some  one  raising 
h — 1  with  that  carriage,"  I  said.  The  voice  kept 
up  a  long  time,  and,  ceasing,  it  was  longer  before 
the  sound  of  wheels  behind  approached.  Sud- 
denly close,  I  recognised  hoarse  Russian  words. 
No  matter,  we  might  get  a  lift.  It  was  an  instant 
when  one  should  think  before  acting,  but  only 
realises  that  afterwards.  Dimly  In  the  gloaming 
I  saw  a  one-horse  peasant's  cart  with  in-sloping 
sides  of  willow  withes,  and  leaped  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  raising  an  arm,  hallooing.  That 
very  boldness,  probably,  won  us  safety.  The 
cart  halted,  the  voices  stopped  abruptly,  and,  after 
a  short,  dead  silence,  came  the  unmistakable  click- 


276  FIVE  FRONTS 

ing  sound  of  bayonets  being  clapped  upon  rifle 
muzzles. 

"  Kto-to  idyot?"      (Who  goes  there?) 

"  Amerlkanski !  "  I  called,  trying  to  laugh  and 
say  in  Russian  that  we  wanted  to  ride.  "  Amerl- 
kanski !  "  chimed  in  Curtin,  as  we  saw  three  round, 
brown  caps  of  Russian  infantry  emerge  from  the 
sacks  heaped  in  the  wagon,  and  behind  the  steel 
points  in  our  faces.  iWe  ducked  under  them  to 
seize  the  edge  of  the  cart,  which  evidently  was  the 
last  outlandish  act  for  spies  or  an  enemy;  so  that, 
as  we  followed  it  up  by  leaping  on  the  sacks,  the 
amazed  men  laid  down  their  guns,  made  room  for 
us,  and  the  hooded  driver,  whom  I  had  taken  for 
a  native,  lashed  up  his  horse. 

We  had  had  the  blind  nerve  to  hold  up  a  patrol 
party,  scouring  the  country  for  stragglers,  spies,  or 
Austrian  scouts.  A  husky,  square-faced  sergeant, 
with  a  rough,  bullying  manner  that  we  quickly  saw 
meant  nothing,  was  in  charge  of  It.  He  de- 
manded our  papers,  and  when  we  produced  our 
passports  signified  that  it  was  too  dark  to  read, 
though,  from  the  way  he  handled  them,  reading 
was  beyond  him.  He  demanded  cigarettes,  which 
we  gave  them  all,  and  they  took  with  a  growing 
respect;  and  before  long  he  ordered  a  ruble  from 
each  of  us  before  he  would  put  us  down  in  Bolan. 

"  Are  you  armed?  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  feel- 
ing my  clothes. 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     277 

*'  No,"  I  said,  and  managed  to  enquire  whether 
he  imagined  that  we  intended  to  attack  him.  He 
gestured  into  the  misty  gloaming  as  to  say  that  we 
might  have  to  defend  ourselves. 

For  near  two  hours  of  the  vividest  war-play  I 
have  experienced  we  rode  with  that  patrol.  Al- 
ways Cossacks,  galloping  like  mad  through  the 
darkness,  could  be  seen  in  the  pointed  hoods  drawn 
over  their  heads  against  the  night  cold,  haunting 
the  river-flats  like  headless  horsemen.  It  was  the 
war  business  of  romance,  of  story-books,  as  remote 
from  the  petrol,  rocket-light  horrors  of  the  West 
as  our  old  Indian  fighting.  Whatever  rider  ap- 
proached near  enough  to  hail,  our  friends  would 
rise  on  their  knees,  fit  on  bayonets,  click  shells  into 
their  rifle  magazines,  and  the  rough  sergeant  shout 
his  "  Kto-to  idyot?  "  Then  he  received  some  thin 
articulation  out  of  the  faint  snow-phosphorescence 
of  the  valley,  and  all  would  sink  back  relieved,  dis- 
assembling their  weapons,  to  continue  their  minor 
song  that  carried  you  to  the  plains  of  the  Ukraine, 
which  the  apparition  had  interrupted. 

And  I,  to  be  with  them,  cudgeled  my  brains  for 
a  Tsigane  tune  — 

"  Vesna  pridyot, 
Maneet,  rubeet ! " 

that  I  remembered  hearing  In  Siberia;  and  they 
joined  in,  chuckling  at  my  mistakes. 


278  FIVE  FRONTS 

Once  they  jumped  up  to  stare  so,  challenging 
a  man  afoot.  The  sergeant  sprang  to  the  ground 
and  brought  back  a  foot-soldier,  holding  him  by  a 
wrist  as  though  arrested,  and  prodding  him  into 
the  cart  with  us.  He  had  neither  rifle  nor  knap- 
sack, but  a  pack  of  some  sort  bulging  under  the 
front  of  his  coat.  He  was  a  fattish,  beardless 
young  fellow  with  a  hang-dog  look.  Our  friend 
in  an  angry  mutter  tore  his  bundle  from  him.  It 
was  oblong  and  heavy,  a  machine-gun  cartridge 
box,  I  thought.     Was  he  stealing  it  —  a  deserter 

—  or  merely  back-trailing  to  find  his  rifle?  It  was 
beyond  my  Russian  to  inquire,  and  rather  useless, 
for  suddenly  the  poor  youngster  began  to  sob. 
Thereafter  his  captors  ignored  him,  and  he  re- 
fused the  cigarettes  we  offered. 

At  last  dwellings  appeared,  and  occasionally  the 
crowded  carts  of  refugees,  flying  even  by  night. 
We  stopped  to  question  and  investigate  each,  our 
hosts  leaping  out  with  fixed  bayonets,  and  their 
gruff  voices  mingled  with  plaintive  tales  from  the 
vague  forms  looming  upon  their  household  gods 

—  heads  of  women,  chiefly,  by  the  white  cotton 
hoods.  Even  two  little  boys  dragging  sleds  had 
their  loads  prodded. 

Suddenly  ahead  a  shouting  and  lashing  of  whips 
drew  us  into  a  great  block  of  supply  wagons, 
driven  by  peasants,  which  our  sergeant  skilfully 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     279 

blustered  his  way  through  to  the  ceaseless 
"  Brur-r-r,  brur-r-r!  "  of  the  carters  at  their  tan- 
gled horses  and  shafts.  The  road  plunged  down 
hill,  flecked  by  lights  on  both  sides  —  Boian. 

Again  the  men  started  talking  of  rubles,  and  for 
the  first  and  only  time  I  was  proud  of  the  bank  in 
my  boots.  I  gave  the  sergeant  the  one  ruble  I 
had  exchanged  with  the  proprietor  of  the  Schwart- 
zen  Adier  in  Czernowitz  (he  had  had  a  bursting 
wallet  of  them,  which  he  called  useless) ,  and  Cur- 
tin  appeased  him  with  three  Austrian  crowns.  He 
stopped  at  a  bridge  and  ordered  us  out,  dismissing 
at  the  same  time,  out  of  pity  I  hoped,  our  tearful 
companion,  who  instantly  plunged  away  into  the 
darkness,  leaving  us  alone,  interlopers  in  the  heart 
of  the  Russian  force  that  for  three  months  had 
held  Bukowina. 

"  That  fire,"  I  whispered,  "  we  saw  behind  the 
house  a  ways  back.  If  we  can  make  that,  all 
right — "  Ignorant  of  passwords,  we  knew  our 
danger  well  enough,  which  always  increases  the 
closer  you  get  to  headquarters. 

We  hit  for  the  fire.  In  the  rear  yard  by  a  sta- 
ble, three  muffled  troopers  squatted  over  it,  cook- 
ing. They  did  not  see  us  till  we  were  well  within 
the  light,  with  our  arms  raised,  shouting  "  Ameri- 
kanski  I  " —  a  good  enough  countersign  by  the  way 
It  seemed  to  puzzle  them.     They  merely  lifted 


28o  FIVE  FRONTS 

their  heads  and  blinked,  until  out  of  the  stable 
loomed  an  alert  young  soldier,  who,  almost  as  if 
expecting  us,  and  understanding  my  request  to  be 
taken  to  the  General  Staff,  led  us  up  the  road  and 
into  a  long,  low  house  by  the  rear  and  kitchen. 
Here,  while  he  disappeared  into  a  front  room,  we 
waited  interminably.  The  place  was  jammed, 
with  staring  officers'  servants,  gaping  peasant 
women  holding  dish  towels,  and  a  couple  of  soup 
cauldrons  on  the  square  mud  stove ;  one  filled  with 
steaming  chicken,  mind,  set  a  desperate  edge  to  our 
hunger.  Returning,  he  slipped  quickly  outside 
with  a  reassuring  nod,  actually  refusing  the  coin 
we  held  out.  And  then  the  inner  door  opened, 
and  we  faced  an  officer  with  the  stars  of  a  major. 

"  You  speak  French?  "  he  said  in  that  language, 
scrutinising  us;  and  we  responded  likewise,  as  joy- 
fully as  if  he  had  hailed  us  in  New  Yorkese. 

Yet  thawing  him  was  one  of  the  longest,  hard- 
est jobs  I  ever  tackled.  He  was  a  tall,  sallow 
person,  with  a  cold  eye,  and  the  neat  black  beard 
of  a  language  professor.  We  placated  him  with 
our  passports,  with  the  story  of  our  stay  in  Czer- 
nowitz  and  how  we  had  crossed  the  lines,  giving 
all  a  sympathetic  pro-Russian  slant.  Never  was 
my  affability  and  my  French  so  strained;  we  hinted 
of  our  wide  wandering,  the  multifarious  points  at 
which  we  had  touched  the  war,  all  with  the  back- 
thought,  "  Well,  he  must  see  we're  Americans  and 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     281 

not  spies  by  now";  I  even  referred  to  the  Kam- 
chatkan  vises  got  in  my  last  year's  trip  there,  and 
lauded  the  hunting  in  Siberia. 

"But  you  are  journalists — ?"  he  hesitated, 
quite  unimpressed. 

"  Yes,"  we  answered.  "  But  that  does  not  keep 
us  from  needing  a  place  to  sleep  and  something  to 
eat." 

"  Well,"  said  he.     "  There  is  the  village  here." 

"  But  if  we  flounder  about  in  the  dark  to  get  a 
lodging,"  I  said,  "  we  may  get  shot." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  It  is  very  likely,"  he  agreed. 
"  But  one  moment  — "  and  he  vanished  inside. 

Curtin  had  just  time  to  exult,  "  I  think  we've 
got  him,"  when  the  door  opened  again,  this  time 
to  admit  a  younger  staff  officer,  with  black  hair 
plastered  on  a  big  forehead,  merry  brown  eyes, 
and  a  small  mouth. 

We  went  over  the  same  rigmarole  with  him  to 
prove  our  decency  and  distinction.  What  finally 
won  him,  I  think,  was  a  chance  remaj-k  I  made 
that  in  Bucharest  I  had  seen  some  loathsome  pho- 
tographs of  Austrians'  atrocities  committed  upon 
Servian  babes  and  women. 

He  murmured  something,  and  also  disappeared. 
In  a  moment  the  door  admitted  us  into  the  front 
room,  crowded  with  cots  and  kits,  where  an  or- 
derly was  setting  us  a  table.  Next,  we  were  sit- 
ting down  to  macaroni  soup  and    chai  (tea)   in 


282  FIVE  FRONTS 

tumblers,  with  sugar  and  even  lemon  I  A  huge 
corporal  was  snoring  on  a  horsehair  sofa,  and 
through  another  door  we  could  hear  the  whole 
staff  at  their  mess. 

Afterwards  the  Lieutenant  of  the  plastered  hair 
returned  to  sit  with  us,  to  entertain  rather  than  to 
pry,  as  would  have  happened  in  any  other  army. 
In  civilian  life  he  was  a  lumber  trader  at  Arch- 
angel, Belaxev,  by  name,  who  loved  the  woods 
and  fishing,  and  threw  English  pipe  tobacco  — 
that  we  would  have  traded  our  souls  for  —  on  the 
table  for  us  to  smoke. 

We  asked  him  about  the  hundred  hostages 
whom,  we  had  been  told  in  Czernowitz,  his  army 
had  taken  away  from  the  city;  and  his  reply  was 
typical;  it  bared  the  whole  confusing  spirit  of 
partisan  falsities  you  hear  everywhere  in  the 
world-war. 

"  Why,  they  were  refugees  who  insisted  on  com- 
ing with  us,  because  they  were  afraid  of  the  Aus- 
trians,"  he  laughed.  "  You  should  have  seen 
them  —  little  girls  riding  out  a-straddle  on  our 
guns." 

"  They  say,"  we  told  him,  "  that  the  Austrians 
have  taken  20,000  of  your  men  prisoners,  and  any 
number  of  guns." 

That  appeared  to  be  the  crowning  jest. 

"  We  never  have  had  more  than  10,000  men  in 
all   Bukowina,"    grinned   Belaxev.     "  Two   regi- 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  COSSACKS     283 

ments  of  infantry,  one  of  Cossacks,  one  artillery 
battery.  And  our  only  good  infantry  regiment  we 
sent  to  Servia  long  ago.  It  helped  to  smash  that 
fellow,  Poiterek.  We've  held  the  whole  country 
with  about  5,000  reserves,  15  guns,  and  600  picked 
horsemen." 

And  then  we  gossiped  till  we  yawned,  of  hunt- 
ing in  the  northern  woods,  that  we  all  three  loved. 
Like  most  soldiers  met  in  the  war,  and  ourselves, 
he  could  speak  only  of  the  small  segment  of  it 
within  his  experience.  His  confidence  flashed  into 
an  ironic  scorn  only  when  we  told  him  how  the 
Germans  expected  the  Russian  armies  to  quit  in 
the  spring.  Tea  by  the  gallon  we  had  drunk  at 
midnight,  and  made  a  deep  hole  in  his  box  of  a 
thousand  long  Russian  cigarettes. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  finally,  "  how  did  you 
get  across  the  Pruth  from  Czernowitz?" 

"  On  your  pontoon  bridge,"  we  declared. 

"  What!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  wasn't  burned? 
Troops  could  cross  on  it?     Whee-ew!" 

We  nodded.     "  The  river  had  put  it  out." 

With  a  long,  low  whistle,  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  plunged  into  the  messroom.  Curtin  and  I  ex- 
changed stares. 

"  Spies,  practically,"  he  chuckled.  "  That's 
what  we  are.  God  help  us  from  the  Austrians 
now." 

"Not  a  bit,"  I  winked.     "We're  only  solid 


284  FIVE  FRONTS 

where  we  wanted  to  be.     It's  not  our  fault  if  that 
Cossack  by  the  bridge  wasn't  up  to  his  job." 

We  turned  in,  I  on  the  floor  in  my  sleeping-bag, 
Curtin  on  a  sofa  under  a  lithograph  of  the  Pope 
receiving  cardinals,  for  this  was  a  Roman  priest's 
house.  The  banknotes  in  my  boots  revealed  a 
tragedy  only  less  than  my  shame  in  having  put 
them  there.  The  long  tramp  and  some  vile  black 
dye  in  their  German  soles  had  turned  that  money 
—  English,  Austrian,  Rumanian  —  into  soggy 
cardboard,  which  may  strand  us  yet.  As  we 
dozed  by  the  light  of  a  long  candle,  first  the 
bearded  major  came  in  looking  for  a  dispatch  bag, 
then  various  subalterns  in  blouses  to  turn  in  on  the 
cots,  muttering  "  Amerikanski  "  as  they  pointed 
at  us.  And  all  night  old  Snoreovitch  in  the  cor- 
ner kept  up  his  hullabaloo. 


IV 


HOLDING  UP  A  "BANDIT" 

In  the  small  hours  Curtin  started  up  with  a 
"  Hark!  "  The  sound  of  heavy  creaking  wheels 
was  unmistakable,  artillery  toiling  westward  again, 
toward  Czernowitz.  We  kept  our  mouths  shut 
till  breakfast  —  tea  and  chicken  croquettes  — 
while  the  youngsters  were  turning  out  and  playing 
with  the  little  brown  dog  they  called  Bukowinski. 
Outside  through  the  crowded  kitchen  a  big  brass 
samovar  was  steaming  on  the  stoop;  and  at  last 
Belaxev  joined  us. 

"  We  are  going  back  to-day,"  he  Informed, 
guardedly.  "  The  enemy  crossed  the  Pruth  by 
the  pontoons  yesterday  just  after  you  did." 

"  A  fight?  "  We  thrilled  with  eagerness.  At 
last  —  after  chasing  battle  through  blizzard  and 
rain,  like  hoboes.  Our  Aladdin  relief  office  be- 
tween the  lines  seemed  stale  already. 

B-elaxev  nodded,  puckering  his  small  mouth. 

"  We've  got  to  see  It,"  I  declared.  "  Can't  we 
go  back  along  the  upper  road,  toward  Ma- 
hala?" 

"  The  lower  road  will  be  closed  by  the  firing 
across  it,"  he  answered.     "  And  don't  you  know 

285 


286  FIVE  FRONTS 

that  journalists  are  not  allowed  with  Russian 
armies?  " 

"  Is  that  true?  We  haven't  heard  — "  we  said 
with  a  fine  air  of  Incredulity. 

The  Lieutenant  turned  away,  and  right  there 
the  matter  dropped  for  good.  It  was  as  typical  of 
Russian  tolerance  as  of  military  men  In  general 
before  this  war.  We  had  been  told  our  status; 
we  were  trusted,  and  thereafter,  except  for  the 
terrible  Shechin,  ignored.  They  could  not  ask  us 
Into  their  mess,  but  they  had  the  decent  sympathy 
not  to  arrest  or  remove  us.  We  took  the  right 
cue  to  efface  our  presence  as  far  as  possible;  for 
they  could  give  no  order  to  patrols  not  to  challenge 
us,  with  the  result,  as  you  will  see,  that  we  be- 
came somewhat  of  a  joke. 

Rime  sparkled  on  the  priest's  tiny  window. 
From  his  yard  there  spread  out  full  In  the  dazzling 
glare  of  a  winter-white  world  the  Invaders  of 
Bukowlna.  For  the  fourth  time  before  me  — 
with  the  British  at  St.  Quentin,  the  Austrlans  near 
Przemysl,  the  Bavarians  by  Ypres  —  here  were 
fighters  on  tip-toe.  And  the  contrast,  the  height- 
ened colour!  Across  the  road,  on  a  pounded 
white  space  edged  by  peasant  hovels,  all  was  In- 
fantry, arms  stacked  in  circles,  steaming  soup 
kitchens,  bearded  fellows  in  long  brown  coats  and 
English-like  caps  still  asleep  on  the  snow.  The 
road,  a  jam  of  shaggy  horsemen  born  to  the  sad- 


HOLDING  UP  A  "  BANDIT  "      287 

die,  of  hay-stuffed  Red  Cross  wagons,  grain- 
bags  on  the  groaning  gun-carriages,  all  in  the  great 
set  of  life  eastward,  back  to  battle.  Foremost  al- 
ways the  Cossacks,  whether  skimming  head-down 
with  their  lances  over  the  brilliant  wastes  by  the 
Pruth,  or  close  at  hand  in  their  shakos,  white, 
black,  the  hues  of  all  furs  —  each  embroidered  on 
top  with  cross-strips  of  scarlet,  blue,  green  —  and 
in  their  midst  a  mounted  field-priest,  with  his  long 
yellow  robes,  and  hood  thrown  back,  dangling  a 
golden  tassel. 

They  passed.  Long-booted  officers,  brown  and 
dun-clad  for  the  most  part,  but  with  puzzling 
shoulder-marks,  filled  the  road,  chatting,  waving 
maps,  joking.  One,  with  the  crown  of  his  sugar- 
loaf,  sable-skin  cap  filled  with  cigarettes,  was  a 
mark  for  stealthy  thefts  of  them  by  his  comrades. 
A  little  yellow  cart  drawn  by  two  ponies  drove  up 
and  deposited  a  load  of  them,  which,  headed  by  a 
small  grey  man  in  striking  regimentals,  went  into 
conference  in  our  priest's  house.  A  private,  with 
creepers  on  his  feet,  climbed  a  telegraph  pole  and 
cut  the  wires,  except  one  leading  there. 

The  infantry  took  the  march,  filing  four  deep 
from  the  plain  of  their  camp,  company  after  com- 
pany, breaking  here  Into  some  sad  chant,  there 
with  a  man  playing  a  mouth-organ,  and  leading  a 
lively  chorus  that  set  the  group  of  officers  laugh- 
ing.    But  these  troops  alone  did  not  seem  up  to 


288  FIVE  FRONTS 

scratch;  their  bearded  moujik  faces  were  vacant 
and  stupid,  few  looking  under  forty  years  of  age, 
as  they  shuffled  on  like  sheep,  pitifully  out  of  step, 
bowed  under  heavy  knapsacks,  with  long  felt  boots 
lashed  to  them,  and  the  little  spades  for  intrench- 
ing dangling  at  the  skirts  of  their  chocolate  coats. 
Yet  all  was  livened  by  a  boy  of  twelve  or  so  —  the 
spirited  little  mascots  that  Russia  allows  in  her 
ranks  —  running  alongside  with  shouldered  rifle 
and  a  stern,  precocious  manner  of  responsibil- 
ity. 

Then,  with  the  road  free,  came  the  obverse  of 
the  military  picture :  the  peasants  flying  from  their 
homes,  the  real  sufferers-to-be,  headed  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  The  women,  like  Eskimos,  in 
their  long  sheep-coats,  high  boots,  and  best  skirts 
—  for  of  the  last  all  wore  the  same,  of  violet 
cloth,  with  a  deep  red  stripe.  Some  carried  ba- 
bies, some  bundles  on  sticks.  The  kids  pushed  the 
carts,  loaded  with  sheet-wrapped  humps  of  pen- 
ates,  the  gaunt-faced  husbands  trudging,  awfully 
stricken  in  spirit,  holding  the  reins  alongside.  And 
some  mothers,  a  little  girl  or  two  —  believe  it  or 
not,  as  you  will  —  trod  blue,  bare  feet  into  that 
February  snow. 

Appeared  another  yellow  cart,  from  which 
leaped  a  man  In  scarlet  riding-breeches,  who  made 
straight  for  us.  His  lithe  and  jaunty  air  of  au- 
thority, queer  uniform,  and  a  big  mink-skin  cap 


HOLDING  UP  A  "  BANDIT  "      289 

over  extraordinary  features,  at  once  marked  his 
importance. 

"  Done  for,"  muttered  Curtin.  "  We're  ousted 
now.     He's  the  boss." 

He  had  no  beard,  but  his  cropped,  reddish 
moustache,  instead  of  ending  on  his  lips,  continued 
in  an  up-curve  to  the  lobes  of  his  ears.  His  slant 
brown  eyes  challenged,  yet  at  the  same  time  twin- 
kled. At  the  moment  we  did  not  know  it,  but  this 
was  Shechin  himself.  Captain  of  Hussars,  "  notori- 
ous bandit  of  the  first  rank,"  whom  we  had  read 
of  in  Austria,  whose  picked  horsemen  had  "  ter- 
rorised all  Bukowina." 

"  When  you  crossed  that  bridge  yesterday,"  he 
plunged  in,  in  French,  "  what  was  its  condition?  " 

We  gasped.  We  told  him,  stammering.  Ex- 
pecting to  get  our  walking-papers,  the  bristling 
chief,  bluffly,  without  mincing  matters,  taking  us 
on  faith  from  the  rumours  about  us  that  of  course 
had  spread  through  the  army,  actually  was  putting 
himself  under  our  obligation. 

"  But  horses  —  artillery  —  couldn't  traverse  it, 
eh?"  he  asked.  "Show  me,"  and  he  drew  out 
pencil  and  paper. 

Rapidly  he  sketched  the  pontoons'  condition 
from  our  description,  with  alert  exclamations  of, 
"  Ah  —  ah !  I  thought  so.  It  is  bad  —  unfor- 
tunate. But  you  are  sure  the  road  bridge  was  im- 
passable? " 


290  FIVE  FRONTS 

"Yes,"  we  chimed;  and  he  was  off  into  the 
headquarters,  thanking, us  with  elaborate  polite- 
ness over  his  shoulder. 

"  Got  the  '  pep,'  all  right,"  exclaimed  Curtin. 
"  Another  friend,  and  we  thought  — " 

"D — n  it!"  I  kicked.  "We  ought  to  have 
held  him  up  for  a  pass." 

But  we  dared  not  interrupt  the  strategy  meet- 
ing in  the  house.  For  an  hour  or  more  we  sat  on 
the  priest's  fence,  watching,  waiting  for  the  situa- 
tion to  develop.  Once  we  climbed  the  hill  on  the 
upper  road,  to  be  promptly  challenged  and  ar- 
rested behind  a  corn-stack  by  three  privates,  who 
led  us  back  to  the  house,  where  one  of  the  sub- 
alterns in  a  blouse,  who  was  on  the  back  stoop, 
grinned  and  dismissed  them,  crestfallen.  Hats  off 
to  the  alertness  of  those  Russian  patrols.  No  of- 
ficer ever  even  looked  askance  at  us  while  we  were 
there,  or  needed  to  with  such  men  on  the  job,  wRo 
corralled  you  wherever  you  ventured.  More  in- 
fantry filed  up  the  road,  and  no  mile  of  the  white 
blazing  flats  by  the  river  was  ever  vacant  of  mov- 
ing horsemen.  A  horse,  stalled  in  the  second 
story  of  the  post  office  next  door,  poked  his  head 
out  of  a  window.  We  resolved  to  wait  —  we  had 
to  —  until  the  staff  should  leave  their  house,  and 
then  try  to  sneak  after  them. 

In  the  meantime  I  went  foraging  about  the  in- 
fantry camp  across  the  road,  and  to  stake  out  a 


HOLDING  UP  A  "BANDIT"      291 

lodging.  In  one  house  I  bought  a  loaf  of  black 
bread  —  wholly  baked  bran,  but  we  could  have 
eaten  straw  soon  —  and  in  the  home  of  an  old 
German,  named  Max,  whose  walls  were  decorated 
with  water-colours  of  his  own  painting,  engaged  a 
couple  of  benches  to  sleep  the  night  on.  Then, 
about  one  o'clock,  while  we  were  climbing  the  rise 
just  back  of  headquarters,  distinctly  from  the  dis- 
tant river  I  heard  sharp,  vagrant  detonations,  as 
of  hammer-blows  upon  wood. 

"Rifle-firing!     It's  beginning." 

Curtin  at  first  was  Incredulous,  but  soon  the  of- 
ficers from  the  house  crowded  out  into  the  yard 
below,  and,  field-glasses  at  their  eyes,  began  search- 
ing the  hills  that  rose  sharply  across  the  Pruth. 
Thus  for  a  long  time.  The  distant  pock-pock  of 
bullets  ceased,  began  again  increasingly.  In  a 
while  the  whole  staff  mounted  horses  tethered  under 
a  shed,  and  galloped  away  up  the  road.  We  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  followed  on  the  run. 

This  time  we  got  some  hundred  yards  further, 
before  two  sentries  swooped  across  the  snow  and 
gathered  us  in.  Heart-breaking,  since  over  the 
next  hill  the  boom  and  wool-white  puffs  of  shrap- 
nel already  were  breaking. 

But  it  was  then,  on  the  return  under  arrest,  that 
I  did  what  so  dumbfounded  Curtin,  and  I  should 
not  have  dared  had  I  had  time  to  think.  For  as 
we  sulked  down  the  hill  before  two  bayonets,  the 


292  FIVE  FRONTS 

sight  of  red  knees  astride  a  big  bay,  the  mink 
shako  and  continuous  red  moustache  of  our  Hus- 
sar, hit  me  with  the  obsession :  "  It's  our  one 
chance  to  see  anything,  to  get  anywhere."  I 
never  considered  what  it  might  mean  to  fling  my- 
self in  front  of  Russian  cavalry  riding  to  action, 
to  jump  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road  and  hold 
up  a  "  notorious  bandit "  on  his  warpath,  with  the 
demand  that  he  write  me  a  pass  to  watch  him  fight. 
Yet  exactly  that  I  found  myself  doing. 

The  trotting,  shaggy  company  behind  reined  in, 
bunching  tight  together.  And  Shechin  sprang 
from  his  bay  with  the  greeting  — 

"  Ah  I  mon  ami.     Mais,  certainementi  " 

Curtin  and  I  could  have  fallen  flat  at  the  sight 
of  a  feather.  The  two  sentries  opened  their 
mouths,  and  ducked.  We  had  whipped  out  our 
passports  and  the  "  bandit "  was  scribbling  on 
them  with  his  fountain  pen :  "  Permit  to  appear 
on  the  road.     Captain  Shechin." 

"  A  good  place  here.  We  will  take  our  posi- 
tion," he  then  said,  looking  around,  and  repeating 
the  comment  in  Russian,  as  an  order,  to  his  body- 
guard. 

"  Stay  here  with  me,"  he  turned  to  us,  with  a 
sudden,  fiery  enthusiasm.  "  You  may  see  some 
fighting.  The  Austrians  will  be  trying  to  cross  the 
river." 


V 


WINTER  FIGHT  AND  PHILOSOPHY 

For  the  rest,  our  part  in  the  Russian  retreat  from 
Bukowina  centred  in  that  afternoon  with  this  as- 
tounding leader. 

There  was  a  half-finished  house  of  mud  and 
wattle  at  the  roadside,  and  by  it  Captain  Shechin 
and  his  crew  of  some  score  husky  fellows  hitched 
their  horses  and  took  up  a  position.  He  himself, 
much  as  you  might  draw  a  beer  bottle  from  under 
your  coat,  produced  a  machine  gun  —  captured 
from  the  Austrians,  which  he  was  as  proud  of  and 
eager  as  a  boy  with  a  new  pistol  to  use  —  from  the 
back  of  a  horse's  saddle,  and  set  It  up  here  with 
his  own  hands. 

Always  livelier,  coming  now  in  streaming  vol- 
leys, grew  the  woodeny  tuck-tuck-tuck  of  firing 
down  on  the  river-flats.  But  up  to  now  no  troops 
had  been  visible;  not,  indeed,  till  Shechin  pointed 
them  out  to  us,  a  long  line  of  dots  against  the 
glaring  snow,  rising  black  from  seas  of  reddish 
willows,  did  we  see  his  regiment  of  600  men 
strung  out  below. 

*'  Look  there  at  my  boys,"  he  said  proudly. 
"  It    is    admirable,     magnificent.     They    stand  I 

293 


294  FIVE  FRONTS 

And  I  have  three  youngsters,  lieutenants,  who  are 
even  further  forward  than  we  see,  facing  the  Aus- 
trian fire  from  those  houses  and  the  woods  across 
the  Pruth." 

Stirring  was  a  mild  word  for  this  fellow's  honest 
pride  in  his  men's  valour.  And  the  snow-bronzed, 
shaggy  bodyguard  about  him,  in  their  outlandish 
and  many-coloured  rigs,  echoed  it  with  catlike 
grins,  as  they  rolled  cigarettes,  or  from  their 
pockets  produced  chunks  of  raw  bacon  and  began 
to  munch  on  them.  A  leader's  homage  to  his 
ranks,  and  their  silent,  bashful  reciprocation  — 
never  before  had  so  vivid  a  sense  of  the  grim  yet 
humanising  solidarity  of  fighters  gripped  me. 

"  They  are  mounted  down  there  ?  "  I  asked, 
most  Irreverently  it  soon  seemed.  "  Not  shoot- 
ing from  behind  their  horses?  " 

One  look  from  him  withered.  "  This  is  not," 
he  said,  " —  a  circus !  " 

Curtin  and  I  backed  off  into  the  hut.  For  the 
four  hours  that  we  watched  this  skirmish,  so  typi- 
cal of  the  Bukowina  campaign,  we  tried  to  efface 
ourselves,  not  to  annoy  him.  But  Shechin  would 
not  let  us  out  of  his  sight;  he  kept  calling  us  back 
—  once  to  be  photographed,  grouped  with  his  six- 
foot  "  gargons  "  about  the  machine  gun  —  to  point 
out  new  moves  in  the  battle,  or  confide  some  phase 
of  his  errant  philosophy. 

A  first  requisite  in  being  a  notorious  bandit,  ap- 


WINTER  FIGHT  295 

parently  (Vienna  papers  please  copy),  is  to  speak 
the  most  exquisite  French ;  next,  you  must  sincerely 
mourn  the  destruction  by  Austrians  of  Louis 
Quinze  furniture  and  Fragonard  tapestries  in  the 
various  Austrian  castles  where  chance  quarters 
you. 

"  The  great  existence,"  he  would  say.  "  One 
night  you  sleep  on  the  floor  of  a  peasant  hovel, 
eating  black  bread.  The  next,  you  are  between 
linen  in  a  chateau,  after  a  supper  of  champagne." 

I  was  showing  him  my  map  of  Bukowina,  and 
he  was  tracing  his  course  through  it,  indicating  the 
points  at  which  he  had  blown  up  fourteen  bridges 
in  the  retreat. 

"  We  camped  once  in  the  snow  on  that  moun- 
tain-top, two  thousand  metres  up,"  his  finger 
paused  on  the  sheet.  "  But  without  hardship,  life 
would  all  be  stale  enough." 

And  always  his  glasses  were  at  his  eyes,  either 
fixed  on  the  unwavering,  comb-like  line  of  his  men 
on  the  shining  fields  along  the  river,  or  searching 
the  abrupt  hills  on  the  Austrian  side,  in  the  blind- 
ing winter  glare. 

"  See  them,  see  them !  "  he  would  cry,  pressing 
the  binoculars  on  us.  "  The  Uhlans  crossing  that 
field — "  and  we  could  discern,  pricked  out  In  a 
black  spidery  train  upon  the  snow,  the  enemy's 
horsemen  slanting  down  into  the  valley;  or  upon 
the  very  road  that  we  had  followed  yesterday,  the 


296  FIVE  FRONTS 

bobbing  heads  of  Infantry  dipping  Into  the  hollow 
by  the  village  of  Ostrltza. 

The  whole  action  was,  of  course,  to  keep  them 
from  fording  the  Pruth.  Should  they  force  It,  the 
artillery  and  Infantry  that  had  moved  back  toward 
Sadagura  would  be  cut  off.  As  for  positions,  the 
Austrlans  held  the  advantage.  Their  side  of  the 
river  had  good  cover ;  they  -were  firing  from  the 
houses  of  the  Bukowlna  town  of  Mamornitza,  ad- 
joining the  Rumanian  one  from  which  we  had 
crossed  the  frontier.  The  whole  Russian  force 
was  utterly  in  the  open  of  the  flats. 

New  infantry,  continually  marching  from  the 
east,  supported  it.  Snake-like  line .  after  line 
passed  through  Boian  below,  across  the  camping- 
ground,  and,  reaching  the  flats,  deployed  into  open 
formation,  advancing  in  a  long  wavering  line, 
firing,  around  an  old  hay-shed,  and  joining  the  im- 
mobile line  of  mounted  men.  Two  companies 
stationed  themselves  along  the  road  just  under  us, 
the  men  squatting  in  the  snow  on  its  right  side 
some  six  feet  from  one  another.  Sight  of  them 
stirred  no  enthusiasm  in  our  friend. 

"  Reserves,"  he  pointed  scornfully.  "  Effi- 
ciency —  zero." 

But  always  Shechin  kept  reverting  in  talk  to  his 
own  men,  to  his  scouts  and  outposts  galloping  like 
steeple-chasers  across  the  dazzling  scene  of  this 
winter  action.     Picked  men,  he  told  us,  twenty 


WINTER  FIGHT  297 

taken  from  this  regiment,  twenty  from  that,  as  he 
had  requested  the  General  of  the  Tenth  Army. 
A  side  Issue,  the  Bukowlna  campaign;  few  men 
could  be  spared,  so  the  cavalry  who  bore  the  bur- 
den of  It  had  to  be  the  best. 

"  They  have  been  hard  upon  the  Jews,"  he  said. 
"  But  what  else  can  you  expect?  They  relieve 
them  of  their  —  er  —  lighter  possessions  when  I 
am  not  around.  But  they  are  not  brutes,  ever. 
Killed  none  that  I  know  of,  and  never  bother  with 
the  women.  I  let  them  get  their  perquisites.  If 
I  didn't,  we  might  not  have  any  Cossacks,  you 
see  — "  he  winked. 

Certainly  every  one  present  In  his  body-guard 
had  a  pair  of  binoculars  strung  around  the  neck, 
and  the  moment  before  he  had  been  complaining 
how  the  war  had  caught  the  whole  Russian  army 
short  of  them.  And  some  of  the  glasses  did  look 
suspiciously  fragile,  as  If  they  had  been  Intended 
more  for  the  foot-lights  than  for  advancing 
Uhlans. 

"  You  know  there  is  a  bridge  across  the  Pruth 
at  Ostrltza,"  I  said,  remembering  what  the  tooth- 
less hack-driver  In  Czernowltz  had  told  us.  We 
were  already  deep-dyed  Informers. 

"  Unfortunately,  yes,"  he  said.  "  And  more 
unfortunately,  the  river  is  frozen  enough  for  in- 
fantry to  cross  at  many  points.  But  let  them,  only 
let  theml  " 


298  FIVE  FRONTS 

He  gave  the  handle  of  the  machine-gun  an 
eager,  anticipatory  twirl,  and  the  muscles  back  of 
his  jaw  crept  and  puckered  the  bronze  under  his 
queer  moustache.  To  us  it  was  str.  igest  that  for 
all  the  racket  of  firing  from  the  spread  lines  of  In- 
fantry, from  the  Hussars,  not  a  wisp  of  smoke 
showed  against  the  glare  of  snow. 

"  Any  Germans,  do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "  across 
the  river  there?  " 

"  Germans  I  "  he  exclaimed  —  Bukowlna  had 
been  reported  full  of  them.  "  In  the  three 
months  that  we  have  been  here  I  have  not  seen 
one." 

And  we  drifted  on  to  talk  of  the  Turkestan 
troops.  "  We  let  them  do  nothing.  We  don't 
trust  them.  They  are  worthless  beside  white  men, 
as  are  any  aboriginal  troops." 

From  time  to  time  the  little  yellow  cart  of  the 
General  Staff  would  mount  the.  hill,  and  the  black- 
bearded  major  who  had  first  received  us  at  head- 
quarters came  to  see  how  the  fight  was  progress- 
ing. We  chuckled  as  he,  seeing  how  chummy  we 
were  with  Shechin,  instantly  lost  his  frigid  man- 
ner. The  latter  seemed  to  pick  these  moments  to 
thrust  us  forward. 

""Look  at  those  girls  there,"  he  seized  me  by 
the  arm,  pointing  to  two,  better  dressed  than  peas- 
ants, who  were  mounting  the  hill  handbags  In 
hand  from  the  very  ranks  of  Infantry.     "  That  is 


WINTER  FIGHT  299 

the  amazing  thing  of  war.  It  is  not  the  soldier 
who  has  no  nerves,  no  fear,  but  the  harmless  crea- 
tures of  an  afflicted  country,  and  particularly  the 
women." 

It  was  now  five  o'clock,  without  change  in  the 
positions,  or  pause  in  the  continual  firing.  Still, 
by  studying  the  white  southern  hills,  now  bathed  in 
a  dazzling  glamour  under  the  sinking  sun,  you 
could  discern  the  descending  black  threads  of 
horsemen  or  infantry.  Still,  at  intervals,  some 
moving  speck  from  the  plain  would  mount  toward 
us,  and,  becoming  a  furious  horseman,  scorning 
road  and  rise,  dash  up  through  the  corn-stubble, 
salute,  and  thrust  a  message  at  his  captain.  And 
Shechin,  reading  it,  would  draw  out  his  pad  with 
carbon-paper  between  the  leaves,  scribble  an  an- 
swer, toss  it  to  another  waiting  henchman,  who 
flung  upon  his  horse  and  galloped  down  the  Icy 
slope  without  touching  a  rein. 

Circus  or  no.  It  was  more  Buffalo  Bill  than  war; 
no  motor-scouts,  no  aeroplanes ;  the  yellow  wagon 
In  place  of  a  motor-car;  instead  of  some  lofty 
tactician  with  elegant  entourage  —  our  alert  and 
garrulous  friend,  refined  in  the  keenness  of  his 
mind,  yet  loving  danger  and  action  for  their  own 
sakes;  loving  his  roving  job  and  his  loyal  retainers. 

We  built  a  fire  on  the  floor  of  the  unfinished 
mudhouse,  against  which  leaned  a  rank  of  lances 
with  their  three-bladed  points,     Curtln  and  I  in- 


300  FIVE  FRONTS 

side  began  to  feel  ourselves  part  of  the  furry  body- 
guard; they  lent  us  cigarette  "makes,"  pressed 
bread  on  us,  winked  behind  Shechin's  back  in  ban- 
tering endorsement  of  all  his  tiptoe  eagerness. 
Terrible  Cossacks  of  story,  these?  Oh,  very  well. 
Then  as  "  terrible  "  are  our  own  soldiers  or  ma- 
rines ;  for  in  warmth  and  friendliness,  in  quick  re- 
sponse to  our  fellowship,  they  differed  not  the  least 
from  any  enlisted  men. 

Youngsters  the  world  over,  whether  from  the 
farms  of  Kansas  or  the  plains  of  the  Don,  clad  in 
sheepskins  or  contract  khaki  from  Philadelphia, 
will  be  brothers  in  the  free,  stern  leash  of  war. 
So  when  one,  with  a  turn-up  nose  and  a  whole 
white  astrakhan  dogskin  colled  on  his  crown, 
started  a  spat  with  his  blue-eyed  pal  In  a  black 
ditto,  there  followed  exactly  the  same  playful 
rough-house  —  you  could  even  guess  what  the 
spitting  Russian  cusses  were  —  as  If  you  were  In 
a  Texas  barrack-room  Instead  of  on  the  firing-line 
in  Bukowlna. 

In  the  middle  of  It,  Shechin  bounded  into  the 
house,  exclaiming: 

*'  Artillery!  I  must  have  artillery.  I  could  in- 
flict severe  losses  upon  those  companies  descending 
the  hills." 

He  squatted  by  the  fire,  scribbled  his  dispatch, 
and  with  a  tactful,  amused  glance  ended  the  scrap 
by  entrusting  It  to  him  with  the  white  shako,  who 


WINTER  FIGHT  301 

jumped  on  his  horse  and  galloped  away,  like  any 
stage  courier. 

But  no  artillery  appeared.  Darkness,  instead, 
made  first  intermittent,  finally  petered  out  the  rum- 
pus all  along  the  pallid  Pruth.  We  helped  fold 
up  the  machine-gun,  and  all  descended  into  Boian, 
Curtin  and  I  to  hunt  Max  the  artist,  claim  our 
lodging,  and  rustle  supper.  But  the  returning  in- 
fantry, falling  a-doze  on  the  snow  among  their 
steaming  wheeled  kitchens,  had  brought  officers 
who  commandeered  our  bunks.  Seeking  others, 
we  were  again  arrested:  a  sudden  "  Koodah- 
idite?  "  from  a  fellow  with  a  gilt  Greek  cross  on 
his  cap,  and  it  was  always  easier  to  mutter  "  Voen- 
nui  stab,"  and  point  to  headquarters  than  to  test 
the  man  with  Shechin's  permit.  This  time,  on  the 
way  there,  we  showed  it  to  an  old  colonel  of  re- 
serves, who  bowed  almost  reverently  and  freed 
us.  But  not  wanting  to  bother  the  General  Staff 
again,  we  climbed  the  hill  behind  their  house  and 
quartered  ourselves  with  a  pale  Russian  peasant 
woman,  who  cooked  us  eggs,  and  in  the  casual 
national  way  remained  staring,  with  her  little  boy 
and  girl,  until  we  were  ready  to  turn  in  upon  one 
of  the  two  beds. 

A  youth  of  twenty,  the  little  girl's  uncle,  slept 
with  her  in  the  other;  but  not  until  she,  kneeling 
on  the  quilt  and  facing  the  east  In  the  manner  of 
her  faith,  repeated  her  prayers,  crossing  herself 


302  FIVE  FRONTS 

with  a  pudgy  fist,  and  glancing  always  from  us  to 
the  tiny  window  and  all  the  racket  of  the  army  out- 
side. 

"  To-night's  the  night,"  I  said,  "  for  the  Aus- 
trians  to  cross  the  river,  and  work  the  Washing- 
ton-on-the-Delaware  business.  There's  ice  enough 
here,  too." 

"  Ye-es,"  drawled  Curtin,  likely  remembering 
the  number  of  shop  signs  in  the  name  of  "  Perl- 
mutter  "  that  you  see  all  through  Hungary. 
"  Only  it  would  go  down  in  history  as  '  Perlmutter 
Crossing  the  Pruth !  '  " 

Hour  after  hour  In  the  night  we  listened  to  the 
heavy  clank  of  artillery,  now  toiling  eastward 
again,  in  retreat  —  a  new  phase.  Were  our 
friends  evacuating  Boian,  leaving  us  to  the  mercy 
of  the  Austrians,  whom  we  felt,  as  they  would  be, 
our  enemies  no  less  ?  We  kept  jumping  up  to  look 
through  the  window,  standing  by  to  follow  the 
minute  that  headquarters  emptied  Itself  and  took 
the  road.  And  it  was  ominously  lighted  all  night, 
the  while  Cossack  messengers  dashed  in  and  out  of 
the  yard. 

But  dawn,  as  I  made  the  fire  in  the  stove,  found 
the  staff  still  there,  and  promptly  at  seven  o'clock 
the  woodpecker  sounds  of  rifle  fire  along  the  river 
broke  out  again.  The  pale  woman,  coming  In  to 
make  us  tea  while  the  little  girl  and  her  heavy- 
faced  uncle  still  snooz-^dj  told  us  that  seven  of  our 


WINTER  FIGHT  303 

men  —  what  else  by  now?  —  had  been  wounded 
in  yesterday's  action,  and  "  hundreds  of  Aus- 
trians,"  of  course,  killed. 

"  Then  I  guess  no  one  will  be  crossing  the 
river,"  said  Curtin,  as  we  rolled  up  our  blanket  to 
depart,  and  tried  to  press  money  on  our  hostess, 
which  she  refused  to  take.  "  We  won't  have  to 
rescue  the  pictures  in  old  Max's  Louvre,  eh,  and 
bury  them?  " 

Outside,  the  day  was  changed  cold  and  grey,  the 
firing  occasional,  but  often  in  volleys  as  if  from 
machine  guns.  Still  pricked  out  in  their  long  line 
through  the  red  willows,  stood  Shechin's  "  admir- 
able "  boys,  never  having  budged  all  night;  and 
that  afternoon  when  despairing  of  any  further 
fighting  we  hit  for  this  town  in  Russia  proper,  they 
hung  on  there,  rounding  out  a  full  twenty-four 
hours  at  their  inexorable  duty. 

We  started  to  hunt  up  our  bandit  of  the  scarlet 
breeches.  An  orderly  at  the  gate  of  the  staff 
yard  said  that  he  was  in  the  railway  station.  Just 
then  an  armoured  train  went  kiting  across  the  flats 
towards  Sadagura.  But  at  the  station  were  noth- 
ing but  infantry,  who  promptly  arrested  us  again. 
Shechin's  scribble  again  released,  and  we  wandered 
up  through  alleys  fenced  with  tight  willow  thatches 
to  the  high-road,  there  to  wait  interminably  for  a 
battle  to  develop,  and  watch  the  refugees. 

The  yellow  carts  hitched  outside  tiny  shacks 


304  FIVE  FRONTS 

showed,  too,  that  the  staff  were  edging  towards  the 
Russian  border.  Women  with  sheeted  bundles  on 
their  heads,  panting  and  groaning  under  the 
weight,  streamed  thither.  One  sledge,  drawn  by 
a  man  with  a  baby  in  his  arms,  held  three  babies 
less  than  four  years  old,  and  two  little  boys  man- 
fully pushed  the  runners  over  the  frozen  ruts. 
There  was  no  mother.  But  of  the  many  women 
that  passed  thus,  the  few  that  were  not  barefoot, 
evicted  by  fear  from  their  homes  in  this  Russian 
midwinter,  had  their  feet  thrust  stockingless  into 
enormous,  low-cut  shoes. 

We  warmed  ourselves  in  one  hovel  at  a  white- 
washed mud  stove.  A  Rumanian  woman  in  a 
blue  coral  necklace  was  slicing  potatoes,  tossing 
them  on  it  to  broil  —  all  there  had  been  to  eat  for 
days  —  turn  in  turn  for  a  freckled  Russian  boy, 
who  gave  me  vile  pipe  tobacco,  and  two  of  her 
own  youngsters.  One  of  them  not  ten  years  old 
was  smoking,  too,  and  when  I  reproached  him  his 
mother  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  hopeless 
smile,  in  the  manner  of  any  parent  powerless  be- 
fore revolt  in  the  rising  generation. 

We  gave  up  finding  Shechin.  No  one  seemed 
to  know  where  he  was  or  the  artillery  had  gone. 
Outside  in  the  road  continued  the  endless  march- 
ing and  counter-marching  of  Cossacks,  to-day  in 
tight  hoods  with  long  muffler  ends;  of  infantry, 
supply  wagons.     Priests,  with  yellow  robes  and 


WINTER  FIGHT  305 

golden  tassels;  and  regularly  every  half-hour  a 
whole  company  of  Turkomen  pranced  up  the  road 
looking  for  a  fray,  only  to  be  ordered  back  toward 
Novo  Sliatsa. 

These  fellows,  on  horseback  unlike  the  few  we 
had  seen,  wore  long  gowns  heavily  wadded  and 
of  a  deep  carmine,  curved  swords  in  sheaths 
studded  with  silver  nails,  knives  with  finely 
inlaid  handles.  '  In  some  strange  way  it  was  om- 
inous, epochal,  to  watch  them,  aborigines  from 
the  wild  Altai  valleys,  flat-faced,  slit-eyed,  with 
fierce  black  moustaches  and  skin  more  black  than 
yellow,  proudly  passing  in  their  gold  and  scarlet 
trappings  the  shivering,  white-faced  natives  of  the 
Occident;  mounted  Buddhas,  flanked  by  mean 
stucco  and  thatch  huts,  under  whose  eaves,  framed 
behind  glass,  gleamed  so  faintly  ikons  of  our  own 
Christian  faith. 

One  of  the  twelve-year-old  mascots  with  the 
army  held  us  up  for  our  papers.  We  laughed  at 
him,  and  never  had  I  seen  dark  eyes  flash  so 
angrily,  or  a  hand  so  grip  a  sabre,  as  he  trudged 
up  the  road  with  his  rifle,  looking  back  and  swear- 
ing at  us  over  his  little  shoulder. 

We  climbed  a  hill  to  a  long  dwelling  with 
glassed-in  verandas,  where  troops  swarmed  and 
cattle  were  being  slaughtered,  only  to  be  arrested 
again  and  taken  into  a  corncrib.  Two  artillery 
ofiicers  asleep  on  some  hay,   rubbed  their  eyes, 


3o6  FIVE  FRONTS 

yawned,  and  grinned  at  Schechin's  signature, 
promptly  to  fall  asleep  again.  Our  captors  led  us 
down  the  hill  to  a  hut  where  one  of  the  yellow 
carts  was  hitched,  and  where  the  subaltern  with 
the  blouse  who  knew  us  stood.  He  went  in  with 
the  news  of  our  fifth  arrest,  at  least,  and  instantly 
there  went  up  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  whole 
staff  in  the  house. 

Belaxev,  our  Lieutenant  friend  from  Archangel, 
came  out.  The  firing  along  the  Pruth  was  relax- 
ing. There  probably  would  be  no  more  fighting 
for  days,  he  said;  and  added,  rather  bitterly: 

"  As  it  now  appears,  we  never  needed  to  have 
evacuated  Czernowitz  at  all." 

Curtin  and  I  grasped  his  hand,  and  started 
afoot  for  this  town  in  Russia  proper,  just  across 
the  Bukowina  border.  The  whole  raiding  Rus- 
sian force  was  strung  for  miles  along  the  road, 
and,  being  headed  away  from  its  operations,  we 
were  no  more  arrested.  Only,  with  our  long 
coats,  we  undoubtedly  were  suspected  of  being 
Jews,  for  no  less  than  three  bearded  patriots  of 
Holy  Russia  stepped  out  of  the  ranks  and  de- 
manded our  religious  persuasion. 

"  Angleski,"  we  would  answer. 

"  Tak-tak — "  (So)  each  beamed,  rather  awed 
but  satisfied.  ^'Angleski  katoliki."  Some  day 
I  am  going  to  ask  an  Anglican  bishop  why  it 
should  make  such  a  hit  with  a  Russian  moujik  to 
claim  the  Church  of  England. 


WINTER  FIGHT  307 

Every  farmyard  on  both  sides  of  the  road  was 
alive  with  singing,  eating  troops,  their  steaming 
kitchens,  stacked  arms.  Dozens  slept  on  the  hay 
spilled  from  artillery  caissons.  Here  and  there 
lay  a  dead  horse.  Once  I  saluted  a  handsome 
captain  riding  with  an  orderly  behind  him  on  a 
huge  dapple  grey. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  he  asked  in  Russian,  reining 
in  with  a  stare. 

"  We  are  Americans,"  I  answered  in  French. 

"  Ah,"  he  beamed,  noting  my  accent.  "  You 
speak  English." 

He  reached  down  and  we  shook  hands,  chatting 
in  English.  He  offered  us  cigarettes.  "  From 
the  way  you  saluted,"  he  said  apologetically,  riding 
on,  "  I  thought  you  were  a  German  officer."  And 
we  all  three  laughed. 

We  met  a  Red  Cross  orderly  and  a  civilian 
climbing  into  a  seedy  barouche.  The  latter,  a 
sharp-featured  tradesman  who  had  been  in  Amer- 
ica, was  supplying  the  army  with  cooking-utensils, 
and  we  rode  with  them  the  remaining  seven  kilo- 
metres to  this  town.  Its  Bukowina  (Austrian) 
half  was  wholly  burned  and  deserted;  bullet  holes 
in  what  windows  remained  told  how  the  Cossacks 
had  cut  loose  on  their  first  raid  into  the  enemy's 
land.  But  perhaps  from  their  treatment  of  us, 
because  we  had  touched  something  of  them  be- 
neath their  savage,  traditional  exterior,  neither 
of  us  had  it  in  our  hearts  to  blame. 


308  FIVE  FRONTS 

No  gates  blocked  the  road  at  the  painted,  bar- 
ber-pole boundary  posts;  not  a  soul  stepped  out 
of  the  Russian  sentry-boxes,  and  we  jogged  into 
Bessarabia  without  showing  a  paper,  maybe  the 
first  aliens  ever  to  have  entered  thus  the  Czar's 
empire  proper.  But  you  cannot  down  the  con- 
trast between  the  Russian  and  the  Austrian  halves 
of  this  place,  whatever  one's  natural  sympathies 
now  at  the  close  of  our  adventure.-  The  latter 
was  neat  and  clean,  with  graded  streets,  while 
here  they  are  filthy  seas  of  mud  where  black  hogs 
root,  and  listless,  long-coated  Jews  stand  in  front 
of  tumble-down  shacks  dangling  little  canes. 

A  meaning  in  this,  surely,  in  view  of  the  fu- 
ture. The  Germanic  race  at  least  builds,  dis- 
ciplines. No  wonder,  in  the  face  of  all  the 
paradoxes  you  meet  in  this  war,  only  a  firmer  neu- 
trality is  the  line  of  logic. 

Everywhere  Turkomen  floundered  through  the 
mud,  afoot,  mounted,  in  droshkies.  The  rooms 
of  this  loathsome  inn  are  crowded  with  them. 
First  thing,  as  his  wife  cooked  us  eggs,  mine 
Hebrew  host  flung  an  English  sovereign  on  the 
table,  and  wanted  me  to  buy  it.     We  dickered. 

Curtin  owns  it  now,  sold  for  25  Austrian 
crowns,  paid,  too,  in  the  damaged  money  hid 
from  the  Cossacks  in  my  boots.  It  Is  worth 
nearly  thirty.  But,  then,  Curtin  is  a  Yankee,  as 
I  said  in  the  beginning. 


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